X-Men 1970
by DarkMark
Summary: Shortly after X-MEN (1st series) #66, the five original X-Men leave Professor Xavier and go their separate ways.  These are their stories.
1. The Professor and His Pupil

xmen1a X-MEN 1970: 

The Professor and His Pupil 

by DarkMark 

FOREWORD: This is the first of a new series of stories. It branches off from Canon, with its starting point being just after the last original issue of the first series of X-MEN, #66, in 1970. The Angel trilogy in KA-ZAR (first series) #1 and 2 and MARVEL TALES #30 also take place just before this story. I'd been toying with the idea of this one for awhile, but credit Indigo and Frito for giving me a final push. 

End of foreword. Word begins... 

-X- 

The Prof was still in bed, and eating steak and fried eggs from a tray. Mrs. Johnson came in to fix meals for them three times a day, though sometimes they called to tell her not to come. On those days, Jeannie fixed the meals for them. She wasn't bad. A long time ago, she had improved to edible. 

Scott didn't want to disturb him. But he damned well had to. 

He stood outside the half-open door in his slacks and short-sleeved shirt, the impenetrable sunglasses perched on his face. The Prof had improved the design of these glasses, with their ruby quartz inner surface. Just another bit of his life he owed to the Prof. 

He owed quite a bit of it to the Prof, actually. 

The Prof owed all of his to Scott, and to the team, as well. Not long ago, he'd come back to them, after years of them thinking him dead. All because of that alien invasion he'd needed "time to prepare for". Well, he'd prepared for it, all right. He'd prepared for it by abandoning them, letting somebody die in disguise in his place, and then, after they'd operated on their own for two years, making a surprise entrance and taking charge again. 

During that incident, the Prof had almost died from mental overstrain. The team had to go to great lengths to save his life. Great lengths meant going to Vegas, fighting the Hulk, and bringing back a device that brought the Prof back from the brink. 

That was some weeks ago. In between then and now, Warren's dad had been murdered. Warren had taken care of the guy who did it. The team wanted to come see him and pay their condolences. Warren thanked them, but said he wanted to be alone for awhile, with his mother. They respected that. 

Now the rest of the team had talked things over with Scott. He'd talked it over with them, too. It all led to him standing here outside the door of the Prof's bedroom and feeling somewhat like he had when the Prof had called him on the carpet over a lousy exam paper, when he'd first come to the Mansion. 

He had to go in sometime. 

"Come in, Scott," said Professor Xavier. 

Scott Summers let out a long breath and poked his head around the door. "You were reading my mnd, Professor?" 

"I didn't have to. I can usually tell when one of you is outside my door. Have you had breakfast?" 

"Uh, yes. Yes, I did. Thanks for asking, Professor." Scott cleared his throat. "Uh, Professor...please don't read my mind right now." 

The Prof gestured with a piece of toast toward a seat facing his bed. As Scott sat down, the Prof fixed him with a gaze. "Do you think I'd be as discourteous as that?" 

Scott put his hands in his pockets and stretched his legs out before him. "I doubt it, sir. No. I just...wanted to make sure." 

"Would I go through your desk drawers or your personal papers without permission, Scott? No? Agreed. Then why do you think I would sift through your thoughts without cause?" 

Scott didn't say anything. 

"Privacy is an inalienable right," said Xavier. "Only violate it when there is no other choice." He spooned a bit of marmalade on the toast and ate it. Like Scott, he waited. 

"Professor, you left us without warning. For two years," Scott said, looking up at the Prof to get his reaction. 

The Prof folded his arms. "Yes, Scott. Two very lonely years. Mostly, I worked by myself at that time. It was important that the Z'Nox not know we knew of their existence. They might have learned of the plan. They might have prepared." 

Scott nodded. He hated talking to the old man like this. My God, he loved him. Loved him like a...well, like a parent. A very demanding parent. A very cold parent. In loco parentis, wasn't that the phrase used of a school's role in a student's life? In place of a parent. It fit here. 

But there were things you had to go through with parents. Even surrogate ones, like the Prof. 

"It hurt, Professor. It hurt us badly to think you were dead, and then find out you weren't." Scott let it hang in the air, and did not turn his eyes from Xavier. 

Xavier slid the tray table aside from the bed. "I know it did, Scott. But you know why I had to do it." 

"I know why you think you had to do it." 

"You know why I had to do it," repeated Xavier. 

The old man wasn't giving any more than he had to. How could Scott make him understand? 

"Can I ask you something, Professor?" 

Xavier opened his palm upward. "You've been here longest of all my pupils, Scott. Of anyone I know, you have the most right to ask. Anything." 

Scott grasped his right knee with both hands, pulling his leg idly towards his chest. "Well, your father. You told us that your father died a long time ago, in a test blast at Alamagordo. Up in a big nuclear explosion. Vaporized, you said." 

The bald man's eyes grew harder. Silently, he nodded. 

"Now suppose--just suppose, Professor--that, two years after that, when you and your mother were living with Dr. Marko and Cain, somebody'd rung your doorbell and you went and answered it, or somebody did, I don't know, and there, standing in your doorway, was--" He paused. 

Xavier made him say it. "Your father," finished Scott. 

Xavier folded his hands before his chest. "I understand what you're saying, Scott. But you must understand--" 

"How would you feel, Professor?" Scott overrode his words. "Please. Tell me." 

"I would," began Xavier, "I would feel, quite discomfited. Does that make you feel somewhat better, Scott?" 

Scott wanted to massage his temples, sure as hell that a tension headache was coming on. But he wouldn't do it. Too much of a "tell". Talking with the Prof was, indeed, a lot like playing poker. 

"Would you feel that you had been betrayed?" 

Xavier's expression hardened again. He looked somewhat like he had when the team had first jelled, when Bobby, Hank, and Warren had arrived and he put them all through an unending battery of tests. Those deadly, deadly tests. 

"Let us add another factor to the story," said the Prof, quite clearly. "Let us say that my father came back home. He told me that his faux death and his abscence from home was a grave necessity. That he had to do so in order to prevent the Communists from gaining vital nuclear secrets. That what he had to do stabbed at his heart as much as his 'death' stabbed at mine and my mothers. But, in the end, he saw what he had to do, did it, and prayed they would forgive him. That, Scott, is much nearer the mark of what happened. We both know it." 

Scott stood up, because he felt he had to, and paced the floor a bit. Dammit, he could not let Xavier run this conversation. There was so much to be said. As usual, the others had sent him to say it. The buck stops with the guy in the cheaters. 

"Say that you did forgive him, Professor. Would you still feel betrayed?" 

"Scott. Get to the point--" 

"Would you feel betrayed?" Scott Summers was standing still. He was surprised to find he had almost shouted. So was Xavier. And after a second of surprise, the Prof's face showed--there was no mistaking it--a hint of cold anger. 

"That might be an initial reaction, yes," said Xavier. "But it would be overridden by the more logical viewpoint of--" 

"I'm not talking logic, Professor." 

"--of the necessity of what he had done," said Xavier, his voice rising to override Scott's. "There shall be no further discussion of that point. Am I clear, Scott?" 

Scott looked at him, then away. "No, Professor, you're not clear." 

"I have already awarded you several demerits, Scott," said Xavier. "Just for going this far. Do not forget who is in authority in this house." 

Looking straight at him, Scott sunk his hands in his pockets and plowed on. "I've never forgotten. I just think you have. Who in blazes do you think's been running this operation ever since you've been gone?" 

"And whose money have you been running it with, Scott?" retorted Xavier. "Your own? Warren's? The money sunk into my trust fund was what allowed you and the others to continue operations in my abscence." 

Scott sighed, ran a hand through his hair. "Damn it, Professor, I've got a lot I need to say." 

"Apparently you thought this was to be a one-sided conversation," said the Professor. "I will not play the role which you have written for me in your mind, Scott." 

"Then, Professor--" Scott gestured emptily with one hand. "Then, Professor, how can you expect us to play the role you've written for us?" 

"Touche`," said Xavier, quietly. 

After a second or two, the Professor said, "If that is all, Scott, perhaps you can fetch my wheelchair. A session of training exercises is scheduled for this morning. I wish to see how the team has improved, or if it has, in my abscence." 

"Professor. I cancelled the training exercises." 

Xavier stared at him. 

"We're leaving the school, Professor," said Scott, as gently as possible, but firmly. "The four of us. Bobby, Jean, Hank, and me. I haven't sounded out Warren on the matter, but I think he'll go with us." 

"I see," said Xavier. 

"Are you sure, Professor?" said Scott. "Are you sure that you see?" 

Xavier leaned forward in the bed a notch. "Tell me about it." 

"Sure you wouldn't rather read my mind?" 

"Don't even joke about that, Scott." 

Scott sat down, fooled with the class ring on his finger. "I don't know. I--well, for me, Professor, maybe for some or all of the rest, but maybe for me--" 

"Scott--" 

"--it goes back to the time of your 'death'. We fought the Juggernaut. Then we were told by Amos Duncan, the FBI liason, that the government wanted us to split up into separate teams and cover more of the country. They thought we could find more mutants, either threats or allies, if we weren't just living in New York. You know about this, right?" 

Xavier said, "Yes. I was kept generally appraised of your activities, through backchannels. You performed exceedingly well." 

"Glad to hear it," Scott replied. "Anyway, initially, it hurt like hell. Almost as bad as, well, losing you. We'd been a unit for over five years by then. We'd lived with each other, fought beside each other, fought with each other, gone through things normal humans will never see in a lifetime. We were as close as an army unit, maybe more so. We hadn't called any place home, other than the Mansion, for all that time. Then we had to get out. And we were scared." 

Xavier nodded, again. "Senioritis, Scott. All students develop a case of it in their last year." 

"Did you?" 

"Oh, yes. Senioritis in high school, college, graduate school. But I concealed it well. I believe I did, anyway." 

"Oh. Well, we had it." Scott smiled, briefly. "Never saw a sadder bunch of faces then I did that day, when we were all walking to our cars and saying goodbye. We wondered how we could make it on the real world. But, you know, we went out there--and we did it. For nine weeks, we did it. On our own. We found jobs. We started to make lives for ourselves. We did it, Professor." 

Xavier studied Scott's expression. He was smiling. Still nervously fiddling with his class ring, it was true, but--smiling. 

"I'd done well enough in journalism and political science studies here," continued Scott. "So I tried for an internship with a radio station. WLIS. They wanted somebody to cover City Hall. I went up there and stuck a bunch of nervous tension in my back pocket and tried out for it. And I got it. Did the job pretty well, too, for a beginner. Dammit, Professor, they liked my sound! They liked the way I did the stories, too." 

"You always did have a notable voice, Scott," said Xavier. "I did think that, if you chose, you could make a career in broadcasting." 

"Yeah," said Scott. "It was, well, being among real people. From Outside The Mansion. I really enjoyed it. Talking to the mayor, the city councilmen, cops, firemen, striking garbage workers and all that. I was in line to be promoted to permanent employee. 

"Jeannie, she was doing really well for herself, too. She took a job at one of the modelling agencies in New York, so we could be together. Had somebody shoot some sample shots of her in different clothes, didn't let me see the bikini shots at first. But those were what got her the first break. Did a whole spread of swimsuit shots for a women's mag. She was getting offers from places left and right, after that. Not just for photos, either. But I played jealous boyfriend to keep that last category away. Not that she would have gone for it, anyway. We fought Quasimodo while we were doing that. Bobby and Hank, well, they went to California and tried to work up a daredevil act as skydivers. Lucky for them it was over so soon. Warren went home and tried to get interested in running part of his dad's business. That was how we spent the nine weeks. You know all this, right?" 

"A good deal of it, Scott," said Xavier. "And then?" 

"You know what happened," said Scott. "The business with Mesmero and the mutant city. The thing where we met Lorna. We had to get back together. It took some time for us to wrap that one up. Once we did, well...the old feelings trapped us. We didn't want to be apart again. So we reformed the team." 

"Were you fired from your job at the radio station?" 

"I figure I would have been if I hadn't quit," said Scott. "If you take off two weeks after just two months on the job, the management takes a dim view of your reliability. Told 'em I'd gotten a better offer from upstate, and they were grateful I gave 'em the out. Jean--well, she told the modelling agency she was getting out of the business, that she didn't want to show off her body to make a living anymore. They tried to convince her that loads of girls would kill to have a body like hers, or to get a chance to make money by showing it off in a bikini. They tried to get her to accept modelling assignments that weren't for bathing suits. And Jean really doesn't feel bad about her body, or showing it off. But she faked it all, so she could come back to the team." 

Xavier saw the regret on Scott's face. Perhaps, he thought, it would have been more convienient if I had died, after the Z'nox incident. For everyone but me. 

"Hank and Bobby were glad to come back, and so was Warren. Jean and I were conflicted. I guess that's the best word for it. Sure, we liked being with the others. But we were starting to make it on our own, in the real world. And that, Professor, is an experience that nothing in school can compare to." 

"Independence, Scott." 

Scott said nothing. 

"I tried to prepare you for it," said Xavier. "Though you may not believe it, because of the way in which I did it." 

A slight pulse beat in Scott's brow. "I think I know what you're talking about. The first time you did it was when you told us you'd lost your powers from a bomb blast." 

"Yes," said Xavier. 

"We went out and fought off Magneto and his bunch in that satellite, thinking we were on our own, thinking you didn't have any powers anymore. But you were faking it." 

"I was," said Xavier. "It was your graduation exercise." 

"You lied to us," said Scott. 

"I suppose that I did," said Xavier. "I had to see how well you could operate without me. You performed excellently." 

Scott wet his lips. "How many other times have you lied to us, Professor?" 

Xavier's stern look returned. "As far as I can tell, none," he said. "That time, and during the Z'Nox incident. I was not one of you, Scott. I was a master, not a student." 

Scott said, "You were like us a lot more than you think, Professor. A lot more." 

"Scott." Xavier tented his fingers. "Do you recall how we first met?" 

"You have to ask?" said Scott. 

Xavier relaxed back against the raised head of his bed and looked at the ceiling. "You had become a hunted man after using your eye-beams to destroy a falling girder that threatened a crowd. They should have treated you as a hero. They did treat you as a monster."   
  
Scott shook his head, wearily. 

"You went on the run, a quite scared and lonely 16-year-old boy. You were assaulted in a hobo jungle, managed to break free when they unwisely snatched your glasses away. Then you fell in with another mutant, one not so benign as myself. Your personal Fagin." 

"Jack O'Diamonds," said Scott. "I remember." 

"You also recall how I got you out of that incident, brought you here to this school," said Xavier. "I shall never forget how you looked that day, walking through the front doors in that suit I'd newly bought for you, still a bit banged-up and weary, to be sure, but..." Xavier's voice trailed off for a moment. "For a moment there, I believe you felt yourself something of a lost prince, seeing his castle for the first time." 

Scott chuckled. "Something like that. Going from an orphanage to a hobo jungle to seeing how the other half lived, all in a week. I was lucky the last part worked out." 

"So was I, Scott," said Xavier. "You were green, coltish, walking on untried legs, so to speak. But you wanted to please me. You wanted to learn how to become a person of worth. Even if that entailed putting on the black-and-yellow uniform of my school." 

"Yep," said Scott. "Damned if I knew what I was supposed to do, once I had it on. When the blast came out of the visor for the first time, instead of out from behind my glasses when I took 'em off, it even scared me. It was different, channelled. You did a helluva job with the design, Prof." 

"Thank you," Xavier responded. "Do you remember the rest of the early days, Scott?" 

Summers rubbed the back of his neck. "All of them. You staying on my back till I cracked my books and got good enough grades on the tests you gave me. Those plans you showed me for the Danger Room, setting that thing up with all that stuff you had Duncan's boys buy for us. Getting used to that crazy costume. Heck, the Fantastic Four had only been around for a year or so when I got the thing." 

"What else?" 

"Oh, the time we went out, got Bobby recruited, and I almost got lynched. Then Bobby and I tracking down Warren, getting in a brawl with him, and getting him signed up. Then all of us saving Hank and his parents from that nutjob in a Spanish explorer's getup. And yeah, I really remember the day Jeannie showed up." 

Xavier smiled, briefly. 

"The first girl to ever show up at the Mansion," said Scott. "Looked like something off of a movie poster. Kind of put up that haughty-snotty front at first, and that smooch Hank tried to steal from her didn't help things, I can tell you." He laughed. "She raised him right up to the ceiling and bonked his head on it. Oh, we were cracking up big time, Prof, I'll never forget that one. But you weren't laughing." 

"I was, inwardly," said Xavier. "Remember: I was the master." 

"Yeah," said Scott. "So you were." 

"Do you remember what happened later that week?" 

"Sure as hell do, Prof," said Scott. "Sure as hell do. Magneto." 

"Your first assignment as a team was to oust him from Cape Citadel, which he had taken by force," said Xavier. "I had known Magneto's deadliness for some time previous to that. It was not an easy thing to send you against him. I sent a band of teenagers against one of the deadliest villains of our time." 

"We beat him," said Scott. 

"Yes. You beat him. Time after time. Even in my abscence, you beat him. Twice." 

"What would you have done if one of us had died on that mission, Professor?" 

Xavier said, "I would have contacted the parents of that student, told them what we were really doing, told them in what manner the student died, sworn them to secrecy, and overseen the cost of the funeral myself. Then the rest of us would carry on." 

"What if they wouldn't agree to keep the secret?" 

"I would have substituted a faked memory and erased what I had told them." 

"Okay." 

"I have never done that with you or the others." 

"I hope not." 

Xavier smiled a bit more. "Scott," he said. 

Summers looked up. 

"Now that we've had this talk, I'd like to advise you to take several days off, make that two weeks, with the others. When you get back--" 

"No, Professor!" 

Xavier said, "You don't know what you're saying, Scott. You don't know what you're getting into. The world out there still needs the X-Men. It doesn't trust mutants any more now than it did when we were just starting." 

Scott fixed him with a gaze. "Then maybe it never will. But we can't keep on living in an upscale monastery because it doesn't, Professor." 

"You can't turn your back on all your life, Scott," said Xavier. "Believe me, I know." 

"Professor--don't you know that's what you've been asking us to do for all the time we've been with you? You--" 

Xavier tried to say something, then gave it up. 

"--You prepared us to be a team," said Scott. "You made us into super-heroes, into X-Men, for--and--well, we're grateful to you for it. We love you for it. Hell, you were my, my father for five years, Prof." 

"For five years, and more," he said, "I was father to all of you." 

"And you did a good job," Scott continued. "I can't say you were perfect, but no dad is. And I needed that. I'm the only orphan here, Prof. But there's something fathers don't like to face." 

Xavier waited. 

"That's the fact that their children have to go away," said Scott. 

After a pause, Scott spoke again. "You spoke about the world needing the X-Men. But it works both ways, Prof. The X-Men need the world, too. We need to be part of it, as, well, Scott and Jeannie and Bobby and Hank and Warren, not just as Cyclops and Marvel Girl and Beast and Iceman and, and Angel. We've been a team so long, we've forgotten how to be individuals. The other three are even scared to date too seriously, and you know why? It's because they're afraid that, if they got married, they'd have to leave the group." 

"I know what love is like, Scott," said Xavier. "Though my time was before we ever met, long before...oh, yes. I know what it is like." 

Scott looked at Xavier, thought of asking half a dozen questions, then put them aside. "We talked it over last night, Professor. You coming back the way you did helped us realize what's happened to us. We built our own prison. Now, we want to leave." 

"This was never a prison, Scott. It was a school. A refuge." 

"That can be the deadliest prison of all, Professor. The kind you don't want to leave." 

Xavier looked at his useless legs beneath the covers. 

Finally, he said, "Do all the others concur with your judgment on this?" 

"I already told you they did. All except for Warren. His decision will be his own." 

Xavier looked up at Scott, and, for once, his expression was sympathetic. "Then, perhaps, you will not begrudge me sharing a few thoughts of my own." 

"At first, I was insecure myself about the role I played here," said Xavier. "Do you think, because I never showed it, that I lacked such feelings? I assure you, I learned to cover my feelings in my early years. Especially when, by sixth grade, my classmates were able to call me 'skinhead'. Or when my father died, and my mother, and my stepfather, as evil as he was. Or when I had to spend those years with my stepbrother Cain. Experiences such as those...you learn to hide things, Scott. You have to. 

"With you, I had to play the role of instructor, master, trainer, and, yes, parent. I placed myself at a bit of distance from you all, emotionally, because the teacher must be a tyrant to some degree, as must the parent. Authority. As you know from your own post of leadership, Scott, it can be a lead bag between the shoulders at times." 

"I know," Scott responded. 

"I worried many of those early days whether or not I was doing the right thing for you, if I should not send you back to another orphanage to give you a chance at entering the 'real world' with a buried secret. But I saw you change, Scott. As grim as you were in those days--and you still carry a good deal of that about with you--I saw you become a youth with pride. When you went to recruit young Drake, wearing the uniform in public for the first time, you were still a bit unsure, but you performed. With a bit of help from myself, of course. And then, as we have noted, the gatherings of Warren, Hank, and finally Jean, in each of which case you performed a bit more effectively. As frightened as you were of that weapon you carry between your brow and your nose, you were learning to use it with greater proficiency. Like a lawman with his gun--and that is no idle analogy. 

"I recall the second instance in which the entire team participated, the Vanisher case. For once, I had to step from behind the curtains, and face the foe myself. I was angered at him, yes, angered for what he had done to you. It gave me great pleasure to regress his mind, as temporary as it proved to be. Then, all the other times the X-Men proved themselves...all the encounters with Magneto and his Brotherhood, the time in which I was mentally dominated by the Puppet Master, you were forced to fight the Fantastic Four, and the Beast turned the tide of battle...the time in which I guided you in disarming the bomb of Lucifer, which would have destroyed the world..." Xavier shook his head. "What a yearbook our class could have produced, eh?" 

Scott saw a twinkle in his mentor's eyes and decided that it was almost a first. "Yeah, Prof," he said, smiling. "I guess we could've had a really interesting volume. 'Bobby, with Awesome Android. (The Android is the one on the ground.)'" 

Xavier laughed. Short, and sharp. But he laughed. Scott snorted, himself. 

"Then came the time that I was abducted by Factor Three, along with the Banshee," said Xavier. "I spent months in their hands. You rallied the others to come to my aid, you and the team rescued us both, and, in the end, even our enemies joined with us to defeat the real foe. That, Scott, is one of my finest memories." 

"Oh, yes," said Scott. "And I still remember what you said afterwards...that we should remember the day when there were no good mutants, nor evil mutants, just a band of men united against a common foe. I think Unus, the Blob, Mastermind, and Vanisher forgot it...but I didn't." 

"Nor have I," said Xavier. "Do you think that, if properly approached, they might have joined us?" 

Scott looked shocked. "Oh, come on now, Professor. You're not suggesting that we go after them with a recruiting pahmplet, now, are you?" 

Xavier looked thoughtful. "The second grouping of Avengers was made up of Captain America and three ex-super-villains. Two of them, former members of Magneto's band." 

"Yeah, but we all agreed from the first time we met them that Pietro and Wanda didn't act like they belonged in that bunch." 

"They were lucky enough to break away," said Xavier. "If others were given the opportunity--" 

"They'd use it to break your neck," Scott answered. "Don't do it, Prof. Please." 

Xavier switched the subject. "I wanted to get to the point which I was trying to make, Scott, but it got lost there in the tide of reminescence. Very well, then. What I was trying to say is that, as you learned, I learned with you. I learned a step ahead of you, usually, but that was all it took. I learned about handling students. I learned about parenting, about training them for careers...two apiece. I learned about education. Finally, I learned how good it is, how very good it is, to live within a full house, among five persons as fine as you and the others turned out to be. And one thing more, Scott. With you...I learned what it must feel like to have a son." 

Scott Summers, X-Man, Cyclops, leader of heroes, vanquisher of Sentinels, super-villains, and evil mutants galore, understood one thing at that point: 

How it was possible to be willing to say a million things at once, but be unable to say a one of them. Indeed, to be unable to do anything but go to the man in the bed before him, put his arms about his shoulders, and hug him very tightly. 

Charles Xavier let the mask drop, because Scott could not see his face, because it had been a long time since anyone had treated him thus, and because he damned well felt like it. 

He hugged Scott back. 

It was a long time before either could say a word, and they did not break the hug when Xavier spoke. "Scott." 

"Uhhuh?" 

"I had hoped that I might spend some more time with you, with the five of you. Being away so long, and only seeing you for a month, seems hardly fair." 

Scott released his grip and stood away, giving Xavier a smile both firm and good-natured. "Sorry, Professor. We've made plans. Bobby and Hank...they've gone to rent some U-Hauls. Should be back pretty soon." 

"Oh. Did Jean go with them?" 

"No. She's still here. Which brings me to the other thing I wanted to tell you about, Professor." 

Xavier looked at Scott, a smile trying to quirk one side of his mouth, though he forced his eyes to be stern. He knew what the next words would be. 

"I've asked Jeannie to marry me. She said yes. We're going to her parents' house to let them know." 

The Professor nodded. "Have you set a date?" 

"The fourth of next month. You're invited, and expected. I'm hoping we can get Banshee and Mimic to come. But no other heroes. I don't want this to be like the Richardses' and Pyms' weddings." 

"Congratulations, Scott. My very best to Jean, and yourself. Can it be held--" 

"It'll be held at Jean's old church," said Scott. "That's what she wanted." 

"I understand," said Xavier. "But one thing more, Scott." 

"Yes, Professor?" 

"What of the X-Men?" 

Scott paused, weighed his words, then spoke. "We haven't decided. As individuals, we hope to keep on operating. As a team, well, it's been discussed. We could operate like the Avengers, just get together when we're needed. I think we'll see each other often enough. But, my God, Prof...we have to find our own paths. Maybe we'll find our way back together. Maybe not." 

"I have a feeling you will, Scott," said Xavier. "Maybe there will be another X-Men soon. Maybe you all will begin anew. But I do not think your days as Cyclops are ended. Nor your days as an X-Man." 

"You might be right about that, Professor. You might just be right." 

"Will you be leaving soon, Scott?" 

The young man hesitated. "Jeannie and I are going out in a moment to do some shopping in town. You know, for the apartment. We'll be back afterwards. Bobby and Hank will be back in before then. I hope you'll respect their decision." 

"Of course, Scott." 

"I imagine we'll be checking out tomorrow morning. We've still got a lot to pack up. You never know how much junk you can accumulate over five years." 

"Or how many memories," said Xavier. "You'd be surprised to find out how hard they are to carry." 

"No, I wouldn't, Prof." 

"Scott. Call me Charles. You have graduated." 

"I..." 

"Call me Charles, Scott." 

He looked at Xavier for a second, more glad than ever before for his sunglasses. Then he stepped to the door, opened it, and called down the hall. "Jeannie." 

Jean's voice came, from not too far off. "Yes, Scott?" 

"The Professor wants to say goodbye. He wants us to call him Charles." 

Jean Grey rushed in, pretty as a rush of fall leaves turned red, in a green and white dress with a skirt nowhere near her knees. She had many things to say, but swept them all up in a crushing hug and some tears on her mentor's shoulder. Scott stood near the door and scratched under his nose with one finger, or appeared to. 

After a few seconds, Xavier said, "I hear you have some shopping to do, Jean." 

She took her head from his shoulder and placed Xavier's head between her hands. "Oh, Pro--" 

"Charles, Jean." 

"Charles, then. I have so much to say. The shopping can wait." 

"No, Jean," said Xavier. "Some things cannot wait. We can speak at dinner, when Robert and Hank will be back. We will all--speak at dinner. But shopping should never be put off. Go." He put on his sternest face. "Or I'll give you ten demerits." 

She bit her lip. "Will you be all right?" 

"I'll be very much all right. Go. You young ones are not so young any more, but you're still too much for an old man like me. Jewelry stores and Saks await." 

"More like the pipe racks at J. C. Penney's," grinned Scott. "At least for me." He stretched out his hand. "Professor, Charles, thank you." 

Charles Xavier took Scott's hand, and offered his other to Jean. She took it, in turn. "Thank the both of you. Good luck. Now--go." 

The two of them left. 

Xavier listened to their footsteps clacking down the hall. He always loved to hear the sound of Jean's high heels on the green tile, but never showed it. 

He never showed them a lot of things. 

He was certain that, by the time any of them got back, he would be finished shedding his final series of tears. 

******** 

The X-Men are the property of Marvel Entertainment Group. No money is being made from this story, no infringement is intended. 

Next: Halfway Fallen Angel   
  
  



	2. Halfway Fallen Angel

xmen2a X-MEN 1970: 

Halfway Fallen Angel 

by DarkMark 

NOTE: The Angel stories referenced in this fict appeared in 1971, in KA-ZAR #2-3 and MARVEL TALES #30. For our purposes we have moved them back to just after X-MEN (first series) #66. 

Characters in this story are property of Marvel Comics. No money is being made from this story, no infringement is intended. 

**** 

The joke about Worthington Steel was that Warren could have used some of it in his backbone, but probably had too much of it in his head. 

They didn't say it to his face, or his father's, when the latter was alive. But Warren picked it up second- or third-hand. He didn't much like it, but preferred to ignore it. 

True, he'd never been a businessman per se. His father had been the steel baron, inheriting the firm which had been around since the Worthingtons were competitors of Andrew Carnegie. In his younger days, Warren had just been concerned with grabbing as much fun and as many girls as he could fit into his life, comfortably or otherwise. He had fast cars, a large allowance, and access to the hotspots. His father, Warren Worthington, Jr., either hoped the boy got it out of his system by age 21, or that he himself lived to a ripe enough age to see his son realize the need to take responsibility. 

Well, Warren Worthington III had found out about responsibility the hard way. First, he learned something of it by attending Professor Xavier's academy, where he earned a business degree and an uncredited one as the Angel, the winged member of the X-Men super-team. 

Then he learned the rest of it not long ago, when his father had been killed by a villain called the Dazzler. 

He didn't know there could be so much pain in the world. He also didn't know there was a pipeline from the supply of it straight into his soul. 

In the end, he'd gone against the Dazzler himself, and the villain had fallen to his death. It didn't help matters when he learned that the Dazzler was really his uncle, Burt Worthington. Great God. How could a man bring himself to murder his brother? 

Then again, another voice in his mind asserted, how could a man bring himself to see his uncle die? Simple enough, perhaps. Blood calls for blood, in primitive instinct. Not that it'd done a helluva lot of good, in the end run. 

His father was still dead. 

His mother still grieved. 

And with the whole damn company needing direction, what had Warren done? He'd run back to the X-Men to fight more super-villains, of course. 

Not that his mother knew. He didn't even think she knew he had wings. If she did, she never let on. Heh, wouldn't that just be the ticket...on top of all that, Mom learns that her kid's a mutie. And that he risked his life a good number of times a year, as an X-Man. Yep, really something to brighten up a middle-aged lady's day. 

Damn. 

So now Warren Worthington III sat, in what passed for his "office" at home, a place where he stored his books and typewriter and stereo and elpees and some memorabilia. He sat in his shirtsleeves and pants and shoes, the ones that cost about $250 and still looked scuffed, and felt the restraining bands of his harness holding the wings flat against his back uncomfortably, and looked at the floor between his feet, and wondered why the maid hadn't gotten all the dust bunnies up yet, and wondered about a lot of things besides that. 

He glanced at his desk. There was a posed shot of him with the other X-Men, in their civvies, clustered about Professor Xavier. They were all smiling and it was a spring day and he remembered Hank holding a smile even when Bobby snuck a slushball into his pants from behind. After the photographer had left, Hank had fished the remains of the slushball out of his pants, thrown Bobby onto the ground outside the mansion, and washed his face with it. Just horseplay, but Bobby never slushed Hank again. 

Everyone had autographed the picture. 

Warren picked it up, stared at it. 

Then he threw it as hard as he could against the wall. 

The glass over the photo shattered and the metal of the frame bent. It made a sizeable bang when it contacted the paneling. He grabbed the back of his neck with both hands and held on as if he was in the throes of a migraine. He did not look up. 

The door opened. "Warren? What's wrong?" 

He looked up at Kathryn Worthington, his mother. She was almost 50, but still showing some of the beauty and all of the intelligence that had attracted the elder Worthington to her all those years ago. But Warren didn't have to look far into her eyes to see the impact the death of her husband made in her being. 

He reflected that she probably didn't have to look far into his eyes to see it, either. 

"I'm fine, Mom," he said, as dully as possible. "Really peachy. I'm getting along. I'm oystering." 

That was an old family expression. A Worthington, faced with difficulties, was supposed to "oyster" them--take them in, build up layers of insulation around them, and keep building until the pain went away. Then some sort of pearl would come forth, in the form of good fortune. At least, that was the way the legend went. 

Kathryn pulled up a chair and sat facing her son. "Nobody really oysters, son. They just hang on till the worst of it goes away." 

He drew a deep breath, then exhaled. "How long is it supposed to take?" 

"Won't we both learn that at the same time?" 

Warren shook his head. "I don't know. I don't know, Mom. I don't think I know a single rotten damned-to-hell thing. Not anymore." 

She looked at him with a bit of fierceness in her eye. "Oh," she said. "And am I supposed to say, 'That's all right, Warren. After all, he was just my husband, but he was your father, and that's more important'? Do you expect me to say that, Warren Kenneth?" 

"I..." He tried to form words, finally settled on, "No, Mom. I'm sorry. I don't. I know you're hurtin' too. I...ah, God..." 

"Warren, don't," she said, going to him and holding him. "I don't know that...I could take it, right now. Please, just be strong. Just for me. Just a little longer." 

She held him and, in another second or two, his strong arms went about her. It was not so different from the times when he'd been a child, in such a position. 

"Mom?" 

"Mmhmm?" 

"Did you know?" 

"Know what, dear?" 

"Did you," he started, then stopped, then started again. "Did you know about uncle Burt's deal with Dad? Did you know he'd...gotten involved with that damn diamond smuggling pipeline?" 

"No. No, I didn't. I just knew..." Kathryn's fingers clenched and unclenched against Warren's back. "I just knew that your father was acting more morose in the last year than he ever had before. He didn't want to talk a lot about business. Given what we...what we learned, I can certainly see why." 

"Tell me, Mom," said Warren, his head on his mother's shoulder. "Tell me why a man goes so bad, he wants to kill his brother. Tell me how that can happen." 

"Your uncle Burt never seemed to have much of a, well, of a moral compass," said Kathryn. "Otherwise, he never would have bought into that marijuana operation years ago. He thought it was just money. That's all he saw it as. He also told Warren years later that he thought he'd never get caught, that all they'd catch would be the mules in the operation. He was wrong. That was why Burt spent some time in the state pen." 

"Yeah," said Warren, quietly. "And Dad helped get him out, tried to get him started up again in a legit business, and Burt turned into a diamond smuggler, and then a...a super-villain." The phrase sounded so ludicrous as he said it, he almost spat. Even "murderer" sounded better. 

"A man without a moral compass, Warren, just sees things in terms of advantages. What he can do to advantage himself, that is. Pushing drugs, smuggling diamonds, even killing your brother. It's all relative to one thing: selfishness. Burt didn't give a damn about anybody except himself, Warren. Not even his brother." 

"Or his sister-in-law," said Warren, pulling away from Kathryn's hands. "Or his nephew." He stood and leaned against the wall with both arms, not looking at her. 

She saw the picture lying on the floor, picked it up carefully, and turned it upside down over a wastebasket. Some of the glass fell out. She turned it right-side up again. "Warren?" 

"Yes?" He still didn't look at her. 

"Tell me something about the people in the picture," she said. "The people with you." 

"Oh," said Warren. He moved away from the wall, took the picture away from her, and held it between two fingers and a thumb. "Well, uh..." He paused. 

"You spent eight years of your life with them, Warren," said Kathryn. "Surely you can think of something to say about them." 

"Oh, can I," said Warren. He smiled, for the first time she'd seen that day. He probably didn't even know he was doing it. "Let's see. Okay, this guy with the bald head you already know. He's our professor, Charles Xavier. You've met him." 

"I've met them all," she said. "But I want to know what you think of them." 

He regarded the photo. "Professor Xavier is the most intelligent man I've ever met. A lot of the time he's colder than the lake outside. Or he seems that way, anyway. But he knows what he's doing, and he knows just about everything you're thinking, sometimes almost before you think it. And no matter how hard the tasks he sets for us, we find out--or at least I found out--that, when you come out on the other side, he did it to help you. To prepare you. Well, that's what teachers do, but somehow--he does it better. Better than any other teacher I ever knew." 

"That's good," said Kathryn. "But you thought he was dead until recently." 

Warren shrugged. "Turned out...well, he was doing something. The prof's involved with the government in some ways." He hadn't actually lied. But he didn't know any way to tell his mother, "Well, the prof went underground to prepare to fight a Z'nox invasion, and he left a chameleon guy called the Changeling in his place, and the Changeling got killed by a subterranean guy called Grotesk, but we thought it was really the prof, and we found out later it wasn't." 

Sometimes X-Men stuff sounded like a bad science fiction novel, even to him. 

"This fellow here in the cheaters," he said, indicating the face in the picture with his forefinger, "that's Scott Summers. He's more or less the leader, under Professor Xavier." 

"Leader of what?" 

"Of the school. He's kind of a, well, a student council president." 

"You mean they could have had you and they chose him?" She looked incredulous as she said it. 

"Well, yeah, I guess they did," said Warren, a tad sheepishly. 

"Well, you should have told me, Warren," she said. "I could have called up your Professor Xavier, told him how much money we were donating to the school, and changed his mind." 

"Mom!" 

"Such things can be done, dear. And they look good on your resume." 

"I wouldn't have taken it," he said. "And the professor wouldn't have gone for it. I don't think the rest of them would have accepted it, either." 

Kathryn looked at her son, appraisingly. "What's so big about that position, Warren? I was an officer in my finishing school's government, and was on the student council at college. All you have to do is silly things like talk to the chancellor about skirt lengths and curfew times and that sort of thing." 

"Um. It's a little bigger than skirt lengths where we come from, Mom." 

"Well, what is it, then?" Mrs. Worthington crossed her arms across her chest. "Are you involved in some sort of, well, spy operation or something?" 

Warren ran his hands through his blonde hair, felt the slight ache in his back from his folded wings. "I can't tell you, Mom. I wish I could, but..." 

"Why can't you?" she asked. 

He looked at her, silently. She waited. Finally, she said, "It isn't something like your father was mixed up in, is it, Warren?" 

"Not...in...the...least, Mom," he said, with emphasis. "Believe me." 

"Nothing you could be sent to jail for? Or even something morally outrageous?" 

"Nothing like that. Not morally outrageous, just...outrageous, sometimes." 

She pointed at the girl in the picture. "This is Jean Grey, isn't it? I remember her." 

"Oh, yeah," said Warren. "At one time, I was convinced I was in love with her. So was Scott, so, I guess, was just about everybody there. I swept her off her feet a couple of times, figured I'd have a clear field with her. Turns out she and Scott were meant for each other. So I tried hanging in there for awhile, but I eventually gave it up. That's about when I met...Candy." 

His expression sobered at her name, and both of them knew why. Candy Sothern, his girlfriend, had been captured by the Dazzler in the recent adventure and had been slightly injured during the fracas. She'd been hospitalized for a week and then sent home to continue her recouping from a couple of busted ribs where he'd grabbed her as she fell and the mind-treatment the Dazzler had given her. Warren had been in to see her every day, flooding her hospital room and then her house with flowers. 

"I gotta give her a call later," said Warren. "Maybe I should go see her." 

"I know, dear, but let's make it later," said Kathryn. "There are things we need to talk about first." 

He looked up, a bit warily. "What about, Mom?" 

She said, "Warren. What is it you plan to do in the next week?" 

"Well, I--" He put the picture on the desk nearby, then grasped the sides of his chair with both hands. "I kinda figured that I'd spend as much time with you as necessary. Then I'd probably go back to..." 

"To the school," finished Kathryn Worthington. 

"Uh, yeah," said Warren. "That is, when we're both feeling a little better and all. However long that takes." 

Kathryn sat facing her son. "Warren. You've been at that school over eight years now, haven't you?" 

"Something like that." 

"You've gotten your high school diploma, a B.A. in business administration, and you're supposed to be working on your masters. All in one school." 

Warren looked at her, hard. "So where is this leading, Mom?" 

"What it's leading to, Warren, is that I think it's time you left that school." 

"No!" He stood up. "You don't understand, Mom. I just can't." 

"You can't transfer your credits and work on your masters at another school? I think that's very possible." 

"That's not it, Mom. I'm sorry. It's something else entirely." 

"That secret business you're keeping from me, Warren? Is that it?" 

"Yes, that's it." 

"Well, what is it? Is it more criminal than making moonshine? Are you involved in some sort of cult, Warren?" She stood very close to him, only inches away. "Tell me, Warren. I know you want to tell me." 

"I--well, yes, I do want to tell you, Mother," he said, looking away from her. "I do, but--it's just--it's not just me, it's these five other people in the picture, too." 

"You know something, Warren?" 

He sighed. "I know a lot more than I want to." 

"You think of them more as your family than you did Warren and I." 

He stood there, drop-mouthed, unable to speak. He didn't know if he could get anything out of his mouth unless someone dropped a hammer on his toe, and maybe it wouldn't even happen then. 

"Oh, you don't need to deny it," said Kathryn. "First we packed you off to military school. You quit that and went up to New York City, and we were about to come up there and drag you back by your ears. Then you met this Xavier person, and he convinced us both to let you enroll in his academy. Your grades went up, you seemed a lot more dedicated to schoolwork than you were before, and we believed he was a good influence on you." 

"The greatest influence," said Warren. "After you and Dad, of course." 

"But there was always something, I don't know, a little bizarre about that place. Areas we couldn't see, weren't admitted to. As if we were on a military base or something." 

"In a way," Warren admitted, "you were." 

"So you were involved with the Army?" 

"No," he said. "Not the military. But go ahead. I...ah, crap!" He buried his head in his arms and his shoulders began to shake. 

"Warren," said Kathryn, gently, touching his shoulder. He shrank back. 

He was crying. 

"Dammit to hell, my father is dead," he said. "My father is dead and we sit here and, talk, and..." 

He couldn't say any more. By that time, Kathryn was crying, too. 

-X- 

The simple act of getting ready to go outside, in times of grief, becomes inordinately complex. Warren found himself unable to do a decent enough job shaving, even with an electric, and decided to hell with the places on his neck and under his lip that were hard to get. He changed shirts, rolling his Ban on five times under each arm. The wings still ached, and he felt like yelling at them to be quiet. 

God, he wanted to get into the sky again. He wanted to free himself of this harness, get on one of his outfits, whether the yellow, red, or blue one, and soar into the heavens, immerse himself in the fogginess of the low clouds, look at the countryside from the vantage point that made it a strategic map. 

But he couldn't do that now. He had to check in on Candy. 

She was lucky. Of the four principals in the Dazzler affair, she was one of the two that had lived. 

A buzzer sounded in the next room. It was the phone intercom, somebody wanting to call him. Half in and half out of his white monogrammed shirt, Warren lurched into the other room and grabbed it. "Yeah?" 

"A call for you, Master Warren," said Curtis, the butler. "From Mr. Summers." 

"Ah, okay, put him on, put him on," said Warren, trying to do one of his cuff links as he cradled the phone between head and shoulder. What the hell did Cyke want this time? If Magneto was on tap again, he was all in favor of stepping out of this one. 

"Warren?" said Scott. "How you feeling?" 

"'Bout as always, Scott," Warren replied, getting into his second sleeve and trying not to tear it at the elbow. "What's up?" 

"Got something big to tell you," Scott said. "Feel like you're ready for it?" 

Warren stopped, held the phone in one hand. "What is it?" 

"Warren, we're breaking up the X-Men," said Scott. 

"What?" 

His own voice sounded as far away as if he were at one end of the Lincoln Tunnel and it were at the other. 

"We're leaving the school," said Scott. "All of us, Jean, myself, Bobby, and Hank. We just figured it was time." 

"You figured it was time," said Warren, sitting down on a plastic chair, hard. 

"Uh huh. We've been...together, too long. Away from the world too long. Also we just couldn't go back to life under the Professor, after all this time on our own." 

"I see," said Warren. But he didn't. 

"Warren, are you all right?" 

"What the hell do you expect me to be, Scott? My father's dead. Now you tell me that the team is breaking up. Was this your idea?" 

"It was all of our idea, big guy. We've grown up. You know that. We're not 16-year-olds anymore." 

"Sounds like the lamest excuse I ever heard. What about Magneto?" 

"We'll still be around, as individuals, Warren. Maybe even as a team, later on. But this isn't about Magneto. It isn't even about the team. It's about me, and Jeannie, and Hank, and Bobby, and you. And I think you know it." 

Warren held his peace. 

"Warren? Are you there?" 

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I'm here." 

"Your decision is your own, old friend. But we've got to find our own individual lives again. If we stayed in the mansion anymore...well, it's a bigger trap than the Danger Room. And a lot deadlier." 

A sigh. "Scott, you could have told me. You could have asked me about it beforehand." 

"We didn't want to hurt you, Warren. You'd been through enough already." 

"Oh, yeah." Sarcasm. He didn't want to hurt Scott...hell, they'd banged heads a lot of times before, but he gave Summers more respect in the end than anyone this side of Xavier. But now all he was saying was verbal brickbats to bounce off the guy on the other end. His brother in arms. His fellow X-Man. 

Except there weren't any more X-Men, if what he was saying was true. 

"Besides, we had to make the decision right then," Scott continued. "The Professor's recovered. We just couldn't keep up that illusion for him anymore." 

"Yeah," said Warren. "An illusion that he had five people that cared about him." 

"You want me to call back later, Warren?" 

"No. I just--look, I'm sorry, Scott. It just really still isn't a good time, you know? I'm still hurting." 

"You want to talk about it?" 

"Like what's to say? That I didn't see him enough from my fifteenth year till two weeks ago? That I wish to God I had a father who played more ball with me, was there for me when I came in at night, could tell me about growing up from his perspective? Maybe somebody I could've done some good, being there when he needed me? Maybe somebody who could've kept him out of that, that thing with my uncle? And I could've had it, Scott. I could'a had it, if..." 

A long beat of silence. Finally, Scott said, "Say it, Warren." 

"If there hadn't been the X-Men," said Warren, as dully as a rock dropping into a puddle. 

Softly, Scott said, "Now you know why we had to do it. Don't you, Warren?" 

"Yeah. Yeah, maybe I do." 

"You want me to come down there and see you, Warren? I could bring Jeannie, if you'd like. She'd like to see you, too." 

"That's all right, Scott. I'm sure we'll get together pretty soon, anyway. That's the way these things go." 

"I hope you will, Warren, because Jeannie and I are getting married soon, and I'd like you to be best man. If you can make it, that is." 

"You what?" 

"I'm getting married to Jean," said Scott. "That's another reason we're leaving." 

"Holy--ah, Scott. Quit making the elevator go up and down. I--" He laughed, nervously. "This is a dream, right? I'm gonna wake up any minute and find out that it was all a dream. Everything's getting yanked out from under me too quickly, Scott." 

"Maybe that's why you've got wings, Warren. So you can fly, when they do." 

"Oh, great metaphor, Scott." He paused. "Look. I'm sorry." 

"Forget it. You're entitled, buddy. I know what happened." 

"Yeah." 

"But look at it this way. You had a father for all these years of your life. Even if you didn't get to see him as much as you think you should've. I can hardly remember my father, Warren. I can't even remember his face." 

"I'm sorry about that, Scott." 

"It's all right. Just part of the game, Warren." A pause. "Look. You really sure you'll be all right?" 

"Oh, yeah. No razors in the bathtub for me. I was just on my way to see Candy. Want me to see if she wants to come, too?" 

"Sure," said Scott. "She knows us. I'd be glad to have her there." 

"Scott." 

"Yes, Warren?" 

"Look. I know that I was hard to get along with, early on." 

"Oh, come on, Warren--" 

"No, no, just listen to me. Just listen. I know I was an arrogant little son of a you know what. Maybe it was the money, maybe it was wanting to prove myself the best...I've always been that way. Maybe that was because I had so much to measure up to. My dad, he achieved so much. I knew...I know...that I can't ever equal him. I'd be nowhere near the businessman he was." 

"You might surprise yourself, Warren." 

"Thanks, Scott, but I know it. The thing is, I couldn't be better than him, so I had to settle for trying to be better than everybody else. I'm sure it was hard on you all, a lot of the time." 

"You got over it. Or don't you recall?" 

"I got over it because we were a team, and we had to be a team," said Warren. "I remember when you hit me with that eye-blast when we were fighting El Tigre. It laid me up for awhile. I was hurt, and I accused you of doing it on purpose, because we both wanted Jeannie. You do remember that, don't you?" 

"I've tried to forget it, Warren." 

"Well, I can't. Because it was the godawfullest, rottenest thing I've ever said. I know I've apologized a lot for it, Scott, but I'll never apologize enough." 

"Look," said Scott. "You were injured. Don't you think I felt pretty damned bad about hitting you with my eye-blast, like that? Do you think you were the only bad guy in that incident?" 

"You did it by accident," said Warren. "I said what I did because I wanted to hurt you. I said it, maybe, because..." 

He made himself finish the sentence. 

"...because maybe I was thinking that it'd make you feel guilty enough to give up Jeannie and let me have her," said Warren. "But, y'know something, Scott? I'm glad you didn't." 

"I'm glad you feel that way, Warren. But that isn't the incident I'd most like to remember, with you. I remember the times we helped each other against Magneto, against the Sentinels, Factor Three, all the rest. I remember how we all felt when that radiation burst made you crazy, turned you against us, made you fight Iron Man. You remember that?" 

"Uh, yeah," said Warren, embarrassed. "I remember." 

"You wouldn't believe how badly we all felt when you said you were leaving us, Warren. And that was still in your, well, your 'ego days'. But every one of us, Jean, Hank, Bobby, and myself, we couldn't stand to go on without you by our side. We were just damned glad that we didn't have to." 

"Thank you, Scott," said Warren, quietly. "I'm damned glad I didn't have to, either." 

"Hey, the X-Men wouldn't have been the X-Men without the Angel," said Scott. "Don't ever forget that, Warren. Don't ever forget it." 

"No more than I'd forget you," Warren said. "So, before I forget about it...congratulations. And where's the wedding going to be held?" 

"Thank you, and it'll be the fourth of next month, at the Methodist church in Jean's home town. You'd better show up, or I'll get a Sentinel to come fetch you." 

"A Sentinel couldn't keep me away," said Warren. "Hey, you give my best to Jeannie. Tell her she's still really the tops." 

"I will." 

"Tell Bobby and Hank for me, too," said Warren, stumbling for words. "Tell 'em...tell 'em they were the greatest." 

"I'll do it, Warren." 

"Just like you, Scott." 

"Thanks, Warren. You were the greatest, too. I mean that." 

Warren sighed. "Think we'll get together again, Scott?" 

"Don't know, Warren. We've got to find a way to get apart, first." 

"Yeah, you're right. I think we can do it, though. Scott, I gotta go." 

"Okay, but let me give you my number, first." Scott read him off a seven-digit number, plus an area code. "If you have trouble, if you're just feeling too down, or anything, call me. I want you to do that, Warren." 

"Thanks, Scott. I'll keep in touch." 

"Okay, brother. You'd better hit the road now, or you'll interrupt her watching Johnny Carson's monologue." 

"Funneee. Catch you later, Scotty." 

"Best of luck, Warren." 

"Thanks." 

The phone clicked off. 

He listened to the tone for five seconds, then finished getting dressed. 

-X- 

It wasn't quite sunset when Warren pulled up before the Sothern home. They knew who was driving the XK-E, as they would have known if he had taken the Camaro. It was a nice enough house--Candy's folks had made good money buying into oil--but he wasn't concerned with architecture or landscaping just then. He banged the knocker. The maid let him in. Candy's mother was watching TV in the front room. The maid announced him, he had a bit of conversation with the mistress of the house, accepted her words of condolence gratefully, and was then escorted to Candy's room. The door had to remain halfway open while he was there. 

As he entered, he saw a framed magazine cover featuring the X-Men on one of her walls. 

Candy herself was lying on her bed, covers up to her waist, wearing a green Vassar sweatshirt that concealed the bandages about her midsection. Her TV was also on, but she shut it off with the remote when she saw Warren. "Hi," she said. 

She had a wan smile, but it was still nice to see. 

Warren clumped over to her bed in his brown boots. He pulled a chair over, sat on it, grasped her right hand in both of his. "So. How's the most beautiful body I've seen in at least..." 

Candy said, "A week?" 

"No, more like the last 30 minutes." He grinned. She did, too, but slapped his hands with her left. 

"Better," she admitted. "I'm not ready to twist like we did last summer, but I'm getting around okay. Just a little slow." She snuggled down a bit in her covers. "It's good to see you." 

"You, too. How'd the psych evaluation go?" 

Candy said, "Doesn't seem to be any lasting damage, at least according to the shrinks. Considering what was s'posed to have happened at the Dazzler place, I'm pretty grateful I was hypnotized. Out of it." 

"Yeah." Warren recalled how he'd seen Candy in the Dazzler's lair, in a trance state inside a plexiglass tube. The villain had used her as a bargaining piece against him, and it had almost worked. She was better off not knowing how the battle had raged, how she was almost dropped from a great height to her death, and how the Dazzler had been turned into a red splatter on the ground below them. 

"Have you eaten?" asked Candy. 

"No, not yet. Thought we could maybe go out and get something. That sound all right by you?" 

"Do you really want to? Do you feel up to it? Mom and I were going to eat in tonight. Sharon can cook for three as easily as for two." 

Warren rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. "Yeah, I want to take you out. I need to. I'm up for it, I just want to make sure you are." 

"Long as you don't hit a pothole big enough to throw me out of the car." He smiled at that. 

"Warren?" 

"Yeah?" 

"I'm sorry to the extreme about your father's death. Even your uncle's." 

"Thank you." 

"Do you--" She paused. "Do you still--" 

He looked at her with a halfway grim expression. "If what you're about to ask me is, do I still blame you for being out on a date with you when my uncle killed my brother, no. I do not. I know I might have acted that way just then, might have said some things I certainly regretted later, but, no. It wasn't your fault. I was just looking around for something to yell at." 

"Thank you, Warren," she said. "If that's what it took, I guess I'm glad I was there to be yelled at." 

"Don't be," he said. "I'm not going to yell at you tonight. Get dressed and I'll watch a little TV with your mom." 

He left the room. 

-X- 

Candy felt comfortable parking with Warren. Despite his roguishness, he had a sense of honor. She didn't want to go beyond necking, and he never did. Not yet, anyway. Also, she sensed that when he met her, he had been burned in one of those love-triangle things straight out of a Harlequin novel. So he was more hesitant about giving his heart, and that gave them both time to develop some affection. That was why she felt safe with him, and enjoyed his company. 

But she wondered if he was really in love with her. There was a point of secrecy with Warren beyond which she had not yet been able to push. It had to do, she sensed, with the Xavier academy. He'd given her a tour of the grounds once, after she'd met the other students (only four) at a birthday party for Bobby Drake. She felt that she hadn't seen all of the place, and speculated what was behind those locked doors she discovered. 

Then, just recently, that horrible man called the Dazzler had kidnapped her for some reason, hypnotized her, and apparently threatened her life. That X-Man, the Angel, had saved her, and the Dazzler had died. Great riddance. Especially since she'd learned he killed Warren's father. 

But when Warren had heard of the murder, he was out with her in his car. He said he could have been at his father's side, fighting off the Dazzler, if he hadn't been on a date with her. She wondered how he could have done any good against a super-villain, actually, but the killing was a horrible, horrible thing. She didn't blame Warren for being as shaken as he was, and wondered why it didn't shake him up more than it had. 

So there they were, parked on the proverbial hillside in his convertible, looking out at the lights of a small suburban town. Nice. 

"Glad you're here tonight, Candy," he admitted. 

She snuggled closer under his arm. "Glad to hear you saying that. I thought you'd never say it again." 

"Look, I apologized," he said. "I seem to be doing that a lot, lately." 

"It's all right, Warren. Believe me, it's all right. I know what happened. You've been through something terrible. So have I." 

"Yeah," he said. "You were lucky to be in a trance state. I had to be awake for it all." 

"I know," said Candy. "What do you want to talk about?" 

"Well, me, for one thing," he said, "and then us." 

"And then us? Okay," said Candy. "Tell me about you." 

Warren sighed, gathering his thoughts. "It doesn't look like I'll be going back to the Xavier academy." 

"Huh? That's odd. I mean, haven't you been going there for years and years?" 

"Eight years, to be exact. But my pal Scott just called today and told me that he and the rest of the class are leaving. So, I decided to do the same." 

"Why? I mean, for cripes' sake, can't you keep on with the school if you want to? What difference does them leaving make?" 

"Candy, Candy. Baby. Listen, it's more than just a school." He paused. "It's more like a cooperative, like a collective, if you want. We were--the five of us were one thing. And now that one thing is gone, five separate ways. I'm sorry I can't say it more clearly than that." 

"Warren." 

"Yeah?" 

She shifted in the seat to bring her out of Warren's arms, so that she could look at him. "Are you involved in some sort of government deal? Some sort of spy organization?" 

"Not exactly," he admitted. "I can't tell you right now." 

"Why not?" 

"Because giving away one secret, my secret, would be giving away five secrets. And four of them aren't mine."   
  
Candy looked at her hands in the moonlight, and wondered when one of them would wear a ring. "Warren, we've been going together for several years now. You always put up a stone wall when I ask about some things in your life." 

"Yeah, I'm sorry that I have to." 

"If you want to get more serious than this, as in, maybe, married, I need to know about these things." She paused. "At least some of them. Enough to where I know what kind of a guy you really are." 

"Married." 

"Yes." 

"You really want to marry me?" 

Candy bent forward, a twinge of pain in her ribcage announcing its presence, and took both of Warren's hands in hers. "Of course I do. You're intelligent, handsome, a good guy, and fun to be with. Plus Mom isn't worried about it being a step down in social status." She wrinkled her nose. "She's like that." 

"Are you?" 

"I hope not!" 

"So it wouldn't be just for the money? If you married me?" 

"Not just for it, no. But it'd be pretty nice." 

He put one arm about her neck, drew her a bit closer, and kissed the top of her head. "We're talking about us before I meant to. But I don't mind a bit." 

"Glad you don't." 

"I've still got something to say about me." 

"So go ahead and say it." 

Warren leaned back against the door of his car. "I'm having to face up to something I don't particularly want to. The business. Worthington Steel." 

"Don't you inherit it?" 

"Still got to be approved by the board. I've got lots of stock, yeah. The family holds most of the company. But the board would have to approve me as director." 

"Don't you think they would?" 

"I suppose so, if I can convince them I wouldn't mess things up too much. The problem is, I don't know if I want to." 

Candy shifted again. "Ouch. Don't worry, it's just the ribs. Next question, Warren: why don't you want to?" 

Warren shook his head. "Because it means giving up something that I've been doing for a long time, Candy. Something I know how to do, something I do very well, something, heck, I love doing. It's been my life for the past eight years." 

"Warren, either tell me what it is, or stop talking about it entirely. I can't keep on with you like this." 

He turned his face towards her, and even in the moonlight she could see he'd made a decision. 

"This," he said. 

He stepped out of the car and began taking off his clothes. "Warren," she said, in fear. 

"Don't worry, it's not like that," he said, unbuttoning his shirt. "It's like this." 

There was a yellow skin-tight shirt underneath the blue shirt he was wearing. For an intant, she wondered why in the hell he was wearing two shirts. It wasn't that cold out there. 

In the next instant, she recognized the shirt. 

"Warren," she said. 

Within half a minute, he had taken off his outer clothing, put on his blue mask, undone his harness, and spread his great white wings to their fullest extent. She could see the smile of relief on his face. Then he leaped into the air, the wings beat furiously, and he was flying. 

Flying. 

She saw his moon-silvered form diving and soaring at least a hundred feet over her head, performing aerial maneuvers straight out of a World War I flying flick. Immelman turns, backrolls, flips, all the rest. But without a plane. 

Several minutes later, he landed near the car. He was sweating, his wings still faintly beating, his breath coming heavily. But he was smiling. Smiling as if what he had just done was the reason for which he had been created. 

When he finally spoke, he said, "I'd have taken you with me, if I'd thought it wouldn't have hurt you." 

"My God, Warren," she blurted. "You never told me you were the Angel!" 

"I couldn't," he said. 

"Then that means you--" Candy fumbled for words, for breath. "When you left me that night, when we heard the news your father had been killed--" 

"I left to become the Angel," he replied. "I left to try to find out who'd done it." He looked a bit grimmer now, as well he might. 

"And you rescued me," said Candy. 

"That's right. I did." 

Images fluttered through the backdoor of Candy's mind. Pictures she had seen of the X-Men, of some of their foes, either in magazines or on brief TV news clips. Stories she'd read of the heroes, in Time, Life, Newsweek, or the daily papers. 

Warren was the Angel. 

Warren was an X-Man. 

Warren was... 

"You're a mutant," she said, almost in a whisper. 

"That's right," he said. "Does that change anything?" 

"Well, it...it changes a lot," she admitted. "There's just so, so much more to deal with now, I..." 

"Do you still feel the same about me?" 

She looked at him for a long time before she answered. 

"I hope so," she said. "But, Warren...you've been risking your life, haven't you?" 

"Uh huh." 

"Risking it every time you go out with the X-Men, haven't you?" 

"That's generally the case, Candy." 

"Then I don't know, Warren. I just don't know." 

He got dressed without speaking, got into the car, and started it up. He looked at her. "You have to keep this all a secret. A very deep, dark, secret." 

"I will. I promise. But..." 

"We'll talk about this later," he said. 

They said nothing, all the rest of the way to her house. 

-X- 

In the morning, he came downstairs to find his mother helping Irene, the cook, make omelets for breakfast. Just to have something to do, he supposed. 

"H'lo, Mom, Irene," he said, standing there in his robe and PJ's, both monogrammed. "It smells great." 

Mrs. Worthington looked up, smiled wanly. "I may not be up to Irene's caliber, son, but I can cook. One of the things that gave me the edge with your father over those girls who just had looks." 

"I'm sure. Um, we need to talk. After breakfast, that is." 

Irene said, "I'll be absentin' myself after the omelets are served, Mister Warren. I knows how it is with conversations 'twixt moms and sons, I've got three myself." 

"Thanks, Irene," said Warren. "I appreciate it." 

So, once the meal was on the table and the two of them were alone, Kathryn was first to speak. "The Richmond Group is making noises about taking more control of the company," she said. 

Warren snorted. "Kyle Richmond? That son of a-- Well, you know, Mom. I wouldn't sell to him if you dipped my feet in molten lava." 

"Well," she said, "the problem is that we haven't appointed a new president of the company yet. You haven't announced any intention to try for it, yet." 

"Richmond's the CEO of his company in name only," said Warren. "His assistant makes all the decisions." 

She waited. 

"I'm having to give up something I know about for something I've never done," he said. 

"People have to do that very often, Warren." 

"Do you think I could do it?" 

Kathryn tented her fingers. "I could help you. I didn't spend all these years by your father's side without learning something about the business. A lot about it, actually." 

"I suppose he relied on you quite a bit." 

She smiled. 

"I guess sometime we all have to grow up," said Warren. "Maybe it's time I grew up, too." 

"Meaning?" Kathryn looked at him with caution. 

"Meaning you can convene a meeting of the board later today. I'll be there. I'll tell them to put me in the running for the new CEO job." 

She smiled, and lay her hand on top of his. "I love you, son." 

"Love you back, Mom. But I can't count on that from the board!" 

"Business is just putting into practical application the lessons you've learned in school, Warren, with a lot of experience you'll have to gain on the way," she said. "But you can't learn it just by staying in school." 

"No," he said. "I don't suppose I can. Guess I can put the masters on hold for awhile. Or take courses while I'm working. What the hell, I'm sure it's been done before." 

"So no more Xavier academy?" 

"No more," said Warren. "I guess I've learned everything there I could." 

She smiled again, and kissed him on the forehead. "That's what I was hoping you'd say." 

"Okay if I make a phone call, Mom?" 

"Of course. Give Candy my best regards." 

He smiled wryly and got up from the table. But the first call he made was to Professor Xavier. They tried to sum up the experience of all their years together, failed in part, succeeded in part, and went on. Warren told the professor his decision, told him he would have to bring in Candy for a partial memory blockage that would leave her ignorant of the other five X-Men's identities. He agreed, and wished Warren well. 

Then he called up Candy. 

"Hi," he said. 

"Hello, Warren." 

"Got something to tell you." 

"I'm waiting." 

"I've decided to...well, I'm taking the CEO job, if they'll let me have it." 

"Great!" 

"But being a businessman is a full-time option, in this case. That means I won't have time for other things I used to do." 

"Other things like...?" 

"Like what I used to do at the academy." 

"Oh." 

"Don't get me wrong, Candy. I'll still be doing my little hobby of flying. But I don't think I'll be doing the other stuff I used to. I'll leave that to the others that do that sort of thing." 

"I'm glad, Warren." 

"You know, Candy," he said, cautiously, "it helps convince a board of stability if the guy they're considering for a position is married." 

"Well, would it help a teensy bit if you were even engaged?" 

"I think," he said, "that might be a thing they'd take into consideration. Especially if I was engaged to a marvelous girl like you." 

"Get the ring and we'll talk about it. And Warren?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Don't consider yourself a fallen Angel, okay?" 

He chuckled, then sighed. "How's about only halfway fallen, okay? You have to leave some things behind, but you carry some things with you. The things you're born with." 

"I understand, Warren." 

"Thanks. I'll see you later tonight. Hope to have some good news for you." 

"You already have." 

They clicked off. 

He went out of the house, down to the remotest area of the property, among a copse of trees. When he was satisfied that no one else was about, Warren stripped off his sweatsuit, stood revealed in his red uniform, the one he'd first worn in 1963, and loosened his harness again. 

Then he flew. 

It was a long time before he considered coming back to Earth. 

**** 

Next: Something about Bobby and Hank.   
  



	3. Bobby and Hank Say Farewell, New York an...

xmen3a X-Men 1970: 

Bobby and Hank say "Farewell, New York" and Other Things 

by DarkMark 

NOTE: This is the third in the X-Men 1970 series, which branches off from Canon after X-MEN #66. For further info, check out "The Professor and His Pupil" and "Halfway Fallen Angel." The flashback with Iceman, Havok, and Lorna comes from INCREDIBLE HULK #150. And with that, let's get going... 

***** 

"I now pronounce you man and wife." 

The minister didn't get to the part about "You may kiss the bride." Scott Summers and Jean Grey were already in each other's arms and defining the term "soul kiss" anew. 

Bobby Drake grinned, sitting in the third pew from the front. He had thought, briefly, about yelling, "Attaboy, Scotty!" But a firm pressure from Henry P. McCoy's big brogan on top of Bobby's somewhat smaller foot convinced him that discretion was called for. 

Hank was sitting with Vera Cantor, his steady girlfriend of times past. It had been over a year since they'd gotten together, but here they were, putting out feelers and both hoping their filaments would mesh again. Bobby was with the two of them, but stag. Vera had considered calling Zelda Morton, provided she was still in the phone book, to see if she wanted to accompany Bobby. The four of them had double-dated a lot when they had been items with each other. But Hank advised her not to. 

The reason why was easy to see. Bobby Drake kept stealing glances towards two figures in the front pew, sitting beside Jean's parents. The two were almost-but-not-quite X-Men: Scott's brother Alex, known as Havok when he wore his black costume, and Alex's POSSLQ Lorna Dane. Lorna hadn't gotten a superheroic name yet, but she did have magnetic powers and had used them to aid the team on several occasions, most notably during the recent Z'nox affair. She normally had green hair, but she hid it under a brown wig for the occasion. 

Before Lorna had met Alex, she had gone out with Bobby on a semiregular basis. Bobby had thrown over Zelda for her. Now...well, nobody much had to ask about now. 

Professor Xavier was in the second row of pews, along with Warren Worthington and his girl, Candy Sothern. There were other family members and friends among the small crowd. The latter category included Cal Rankin, who served as a pinch-hitting X-Man briefly in his Mimic identity. He looked somewhat pale and nerved, but nobody had the opportunity to ask him why yet. Sean Cassidy had flown in from Ireland to make the ceremonies. As the Banshee, he had been a fellow mutant and ally on several occasions. 

But that was about it for the superheroic part of the guest list. Scott and Jean's other identities were secret, and they intended to keep them that way. Thus, no mob scene of people in odd costumes, as had been the case in the Richardses' and Pyms' weddings. The X-Men had attended both, as guests. 

"Great couple," said Bobby. "Guess we always knew they'd be." 

"Not always, chum," said Hank. He stole a look at Warren. Seeing it, Bobby nodded. 

Vera smiled. "I hate to talk about those wedding bells breaking up that old gang of yours, Hank, but I'm glad they did for Scott and Jean, anyway." 

"Indubitably, Vera, my sweet," Hank acknowledged, stealing a big hand around her shoulders. "But Jeannie enjoyed the attention of all the males on this otherwise-stag campus. Even, quite possibly, our esteemed instructor's." 

"Professor Xavier?" Vera wrinkled her nose. "I can't imagine him falling in love with anything. Except a computer." 

"The old guy might fool you," said Bobby, fidgeting in his brown suit. "Fooled me a time or two, I know." 

Jean and Scott walked back down the aisle. The organist played the recessional. Bobby thought he saw Scott wink at him, but he could have been winking at Hank, or Warren, or even the Prof. Heck, even Vera. 

After the royal couple went wherever such couples go between wedding and reception, everybody more or less stood up and made conversation. Xavier had Warren place him in his wheelchair, and then Bobby saw him wheeling over to Lorna and Alex. He shook their hands, smiled at them, talked at them intently. 

Holy Mike, Bobby thought. He's trying to recruit them for a new team of X-Men. He stood and walked in their direction. Hank and Vera were talking to each other at the moment. 

Still, why intervene? If Alex and Lorna became the start of a new group...well, there were worse fates. Being an X-Man had been the opportunity of a lifetime. He'd seen things, done things, gone places that his father's resources could never have provided. And he had gotten a ways down the road towards a CPA-ship. It was funny how being a student and an X-Man could take your mind away from seeking a real job. As if there was nothing more to life than textbooks, costumes, and super-villains... 

He found himself in front of Alex, Lorna, Warren, Candy, and the Professor. "Hi," he said, breathily, pasting on a smile. 

Lorna smiled back, breaking the ice. "Hello, Bobby. It's good to see you again, and I mean it." 

Alex forced a smile, extending his hand. "Me, too, Drake. I want to apologize again for that little thing we had. Believe me, I am sorry." 

"Oh, that. Okay, it was nothing," said Bobby, shaking Alex's hand. Like hell. They'd gotten into an argument over Lorna shortly after the Professor's life had been saved by a gimmick invented by Bruce Banner. The argument had been cut short by an accidental--at least, Bobby hoped it was--discharge of Havok's power. It had rocked the heck out of Iceman, and Alex was aghast. So was Lorna. But it didn't make her give up her little Summers boy. No such luck. 

"Just kind of, wanted to wish you, a lot of, uh, lot of luck together," said Bobby. 

"Thank you," said Lorna, still smiling. Warren looked as though he wanted to unstrap his wings and fly out of the embarrassment zone. 

"Yeah, uh, a lot of luck. Uh, Professor. How are you, uh, doing, kind of coming along, y'know?" Bobby held one of his hands in the other to keep the both of them from shaking. 

Xavier gave his former pupil a gracious look. "I've been getting along, Bobby. Just speaking to Mr. Summers and Miss Dane, here. Hoping I can interest them in a possible endeavor. Are you and Hank still planning on rooming together for awhile?" 

"Uh, well, possibly, yeah," Bobby answered. "I mean, well, we've done it before, y'know, with the old daredevil act and all. I mean, that didn't work out to well, but, you know..." 

"Bobby," Warren said, in a kindly tone. "We're friends. You don't have to be nervous around us." 

Bobby Drake exhaled. "Yeah. I mean, no, I guess not. By the way, Warren, is it true what I hear about you and Candy being...?" 

Candy gave the biggest smile of the evening so far. "Yes, Bobby. We're engaged. And I think it's fabulous." 

"She's not the only one," said Warren, embracing her from the side. "We haven't decided on a wedding date, but when we do, you all will be the first to know. And you'd all better be there, or I'll go after each and every no-show and hang 'em upside down from a clock tower!" 

Bobby chuckled. "Cool, War. I, uh, Lorna." 

"Yes, Bobby?" She waited. Alex held her hand a bit more tightly. 

"I hope you'll...be your own woman, whatever happens. And that Alex will be his own man." 

Xavier stiffened a bit, perceptibly. He recognized the implications of Drake's statement. And it hurt. 

"Don't worry, Drake," said Alex. "Whatever else happens, both Lorna and I intend to keep our own lives separate from it. And equal." 

"Glad to hear it," said Bobby. His heart started to put up a malfunction signal, and he damned well didn't want that to happen. He swallowed. "Listen. I, uh, have to go check on Warren and Jeannie, and I'm...glad I got to see you. Really." 

"Take care, Bob," said Lorna, and, leaning over, she pecked him on the cheek. "That one's for luck." 

He couldn't say anything. His autonomic nervous system took over and had his legs walk him away. Somewhere on the journey Hank McCoy caught him by the shoulder and gave him a look of comradely concern. "Bobby? You okay, lad?" 

"I'm all right, Hank. I'm really all right." 

Hank nodded, silently. Then he clapped Bobby on the back, almost making him fall down. "Ready to go see Jean and Scott off?" 

"Not really. But we have to." 

"That's the spirit, fellow educant. Come with me." 

-X- 

Bobby found himself at the punchbowl with Scott and Jean and nobody much else around. His hands were sticky from the wedding cake's icing and he had to awkwardly wipe them on the edge of the tablecloth, underneath the table, and hoped nobody would notice. Well, nobody who would embarrass him any worse. 

With Scott and Jeannie, he felt at ease. "Scott," he said, "it's going to be sad, not seeing you for awhile." 

The brown-haired man in the tux and shades nodded, soberly. "I know, Bobby. We'll miss the heck out of you, too. But it's something we've all got to do." 

"Right," said Jean, laying a reassuring hand on Bobby's arm. "We've all got to get out of school sometime, Bobby. If we didn't do it now, we might never do it at all." 

"Or get married," Bobby said. 

"Or get married," agreed Jean. "And I'm very glad Scott and I decided to do both." 

"So," he said. "What do we do now? It's not like any of us made big plans for the future, and all." 

Scott shrugged. "We find our way, Bobby. That's about all anybody can do, I guess, no matter how many plans they make. We've had it easier than most people, in some ways. Harder than others." 

"Yeah," said Bobby. "Not too many humans..." Then he caught himself. Jean and Scott looked tensely at him, for an instant. Nobody else seemed to be paying attention, but other people were still within earshot. 

"I mean, not too many people had the experiences we did," amended Bobby. "Not too many of 'em know what going to this school was like." 

"I know," said Jean. "But there were so many good things for the people who did go to it. And, Bobby...one of those good things was knowing somebody like you." She gave him a big hug. 

"I..." He tried to talk, but he couldn't. Scott seemed to be holding back emotion himself. He always looked like he was doing that, but this time he looked like it took more effort. With Jean still hugging Bobby, he still managed to find one of Bobby's hands to clasp. 

Jean broke the hug, taking Bobby's head between her hands. "Listen, Bobby. I know this is hard for you today. Hard as hell seeing Lorna and Alex again, hard seeing us get married, and, I know it...hard not having a girlfriend here to be with you." 

"It's okay, Jeannie," said Bobby. "Really, it's okay." 

"No," she said, shifting her grip to hold one of his hands. "I know that it isn't. But listen. I wanted Scott for a long time, and for most of that long time it seemed as though the big lunk would never get up the courage to ask me. And Warren, well...he was okay, but I had to admit he wasn't what I wanted. You've been through a real heartbreaker, Bob, and I know it. It made me feel good to see you with Lorna...and, I've got to tell you something, but you can't repeat it. To anyone. Okay?" 

"Okay." 

"I thought she was a bitch for dumping you," Jean whispered. "Maybe she is. But she's happy with Alex now, and if she is, Bobby, let's face it, she just wasn't the right girl for you. And I don't know if this thing with Alex is going to work out. If she sees a guy better-looking than him, he might just find himself Number Two in a long string. But you don't tell anyone I said this, okay?" 

"Okay," Bobby repeated. 

Scott cleared his throat. "Bobby, I want you to know that I talked with Alex about the incident that happened recently. And I told him, quote, 'If I ever hear you doing something like that to Bobby again, or anyone of my teammates, I'll shove a New York phone book down one end of you and pull it out the other.' Unquote. And I meant it." 

Bobby chuckled. "Thanks, Scotty. I don't think it'll be necessary." 

"It better not be." 

The youngest X-Man sighed and shook his head. "Look. I'm sure you've got a lot to do, from here on in. I wish you all the best, you hear? You were two of the greatest people I could ever have grown up with. I think you're going to be just about the happiest couple in the world." 

Jean smiled, blinking back what looked like tears. "Thank you, Bobby. And...good luck to you, too." 

"Good luck from me as well, Bobby," said Scott, taking his partner's hand again, briefly. "And, once we find out how to live separately...maybe we can talk about togetherness, again." 

"Maybe," said Bobby, holding Scott's hand. "Just maybe." 

Then Mr. and Mrs. Grey appeared and Scott and Jean gravitated off with them, saying goodbye again to Bobby. He stood there for a long moment, then said, "Whew," to nobody in particular. He took a cup and dipped out some punch from the bowl into it. 

Hank and Vera were there, beside him. 

"Bobby," said Hank. "Warren, Candy, Vera, and I are going to the Coffee A Go Go afterward. Sort of an Irish wake for...well, you know. If you don't wish to attend, it's understood. But we would consider it an unforgiveable breach of taste if we didn't extend the invitation..." 

"I'll go, Hank." 

Vera said, "Bobby, I don't know if Zel--if she's working tonight, but we could see Bernard, and the old place, and maybe some of the old..." 

"I'll go, Vera," said Bobby, loudly enough to turn heads in his direction. He looked at them, and then back at Hank and Vera, who looked a bit uncomfortable. He lowered his voice. 

"I'll go," he said. 

-X- 

Excerpt from "Coffee-House Mutants and the Big Green Showdown" by Tom Wolfe, Esquire, December 1970: 

...TheVillage is going through another one of its Phases, and they happen about as often as the shuffle of cards on a street-dealer's turf, but there are by-gosh some PERMANENT things about the Village, and that's when you've set aside all the fashionable changes, the accoutrements, the day-glo bongs and trendy hippie-dippie clothes that are looking as old as last year's worsted now, the graying hipsters still toting their no-more tres chic Ban the Bomb signs, the Che Guevara impersonators, the guitar guys with the hat (or, even luckier, the open guitar case) at their feet for your thrown bread, the protestors with their Speed Kills And So Does Nixon signs, the tourists coming for happysnaps, the reporters with the cameras in tow looking for the Mood of the Moment to fill in a low spot in Uncle Walter's monologue, there are (yes!) Some PERMANENT Things, and one of them is the Coffee A Go Go, down there on Umpteenth and Broad, where you can still hear the Mingus mellow fantastic if you drop a quarter in the Wurlitzer slot, and the smoke-cured hams are the ones who, my God, yes!, actually get up on the stage and declaim beatnik poetry, in THIS DAY AND AGE!! likeJackKerouacwasstilloutthereontheroad and Allen Ginsburg was watching the best minds of his generation rot, and there was no nobler place to rot them than here in the Coffee A Go Go, oh no no, friends and true believers, and while it is true some things change, many things change in the Village, the Coffee A Go Go is one of the Gibraltar points, as is Bernard of no certain last name, the gray-haired guru, part-owner, poet, and pusher of benzene coffee catastrophe guaranteed to Keep You Up To All Necessary Hours And Then Some...   
Well, some things are just built to last, you know?   
Except for the one night when, oh man, you know they didn't anymore... 

II 

"My father conceived me in blue,   
On the blue of the night   
Jelly Roll Morton turntabling while   
My mother and he jam sessioned   
Till the music was spent   
And they too   
And it was blue. Deep indigo blue." 

Bernard, greying, bespectacled, hippie-beaded, in black turtleneck and worn brown jacket and blue jeans, looked up from his battered notebook at the crowd. Satisfaction. The silences, the smoking, the percentage of eyes turned his way in wonder or boredom. Somehow, the boredom was the most satisfying of all things. 

After all, this was commercial crap. Words they could understand. His real poetry languished. The stuff that, as T.S. Eliot would have it, was poetry for the poets. The philistines at the big verse magazines mostly turned their noses up at it. He'd had his stuff printed in the no-pay mags, though, and got back a few letters. That was pay enough for a poet. 

Except that the Coffee A Go Go depended on a New Beat atmosphere and if reading this cliched stuff was what they needed to keep coming back, then he by Jupiter was gonna give it to them. Homer for the 1970's crowd. 

In the audience were some of the regulars. The kids from up in Westchester, who'd followed Bigfoot Hank and Cleancut Bobby down on their recommendation. It was usually four guys and their dates. But now...well...somebody seemed missing. Maybe several somebodies. 

He was damned glad Zelda was in the kitchen right now. Cleancut Bob and she had a nice innocent thing going for awhile, till he dumped her for some other little twist and quit coming there. Now they were back, and Bobby didn't seem to have a girl beside him. 

And where was Scott With the Shades, and Miss Fireplug Hair? Yes, they were the ones missing. Strange, as they always showed up when Warren Richkid and Dandy Candy were about. This time, though, they weren't. He'd have to pay a visit to their table and see what was going on. 

Tut, Bernard, he reminded himself. Pushing fifty and you're turning into the Old Town Gossip, always looking for new dish. 

Still, it would be nice to talk to the kids again. They'd practically grown up here. 

He continued. 

"And all the blue blue indigo blue   
Wrapped up in tinted tinfoil timorously   
Like the birth caul or the egg's inner membrane   
Like the corona 'tween sun and earth at daybreak   
Like the interval between tongue and wine   
Like the ear straining for poems to be heard   
Like the loins begging for divine completion   
Like the prayer a micron away from the ear of the Maker   
Like the needle a millimeter away from the record   
Like the bomb a mere inch no more than that from target   
Yea all the indigo blue the deep deep indigo blue   
All that is in me, all that I am, all that I   
Will   
Ever   
Be   
Is" 

He let it hang for a long, long moment, and savored the silence, broken by just one cough. 

"Blue,"   
he finished. 

There was applause. That was divine. 

The faux-beats and hippies played at slapping their hands together, to show their seeming indifference. But the Westchester kids really clapped, called encouragement, and smiled. Cleancut Bobby usually even stomped his feet and whistled. That kind of applause, for all its corniness, Bernard loved. 

But tonight, Bobby was only clapping.   
  


So he wrapped it. "That's it," he said. "More readings tomorrow night at 8:30. Thank you all." 

There was a Grateful Dead song, "Casey Jones", on the jukebox, started up as he left the platform. Bernard shook the hands of the faithful as he passed by them. Longhanded Larry, Benny of the Big Bike, Katie Kalamity with her pink-dyed hair. All of them with wine or espresso and pizza or burgers or both. His children. 

He made his way to the Westchester table. The crew took notice, greeted him. Warren was first to stand up and shake his hand. "Guess what, Bernie?", he said, beaming. 

"Hmm," Bernard said, theatrically, putting a hand to his goatee. "Riddles often have dire consequences for the riddlee, if a wrong answer is given. May I have three guesses, before penalty is invoked?" 

"Sure," said Warren. "Go ahead." 

"You liked the poem." 

"Well, yeah, that, too, but that's not it." 

"Your stock split twice this week." 

"Nope. But I could do with more of those predictions!" 

Bernard paused. He studied Warren's face, then glanced at the pretty girl in the sweater and slacks, squeezing his hand, and sporting--yes!--a ring on her finger, with a quite vulgar diamond. 

"Then, Mr. Warren, I would presume, for my final and fatal third guess, that you and the young lady here are engaged. Congratulations." 

"You got it," Warren said, pumping his hand. "Just this week. We haven't set a date yet, but count on it, before year's end there's gonna be a Worthington-Sothern merger." 

"Oh, War-ren," said Candy, in mock exasperation. "Can't you think about anything in other than business terms?" 

Bernard tipped his granny glasses down a bit on his nose and offered his hand. "A poem I'll compose for your blessed nupitals, milady. If, of course, you'll consent to bring your friends along before or after the blessed day and hear it." 

"Well, I think we can manage that," Candy replied, shaking Bernard's mitt. "Don't you, Warren?" 

"If we can swing it, we will," said Warren. "This place is part of our history." 

"Especially, Warren, the night of Bobby's 18th birthday, when we fought the motorcycle gang here," put in Bigfoot Hank. "May no one excoriate your expostulations, Bernard. Well done tonight." 

"Thank you," said Bernard, breaking off with Candy to shake with Hank. The man's paw practically devoured the poet's, and he could sense the strength in it. If the young man had gone to a bigger school, he would have been a whole football team by himself. 

"I liked it too, Bernard," said Vera, and blushed when he kissed her hand. "We've got some more good news. Shall I tell him, Hank?" 

"Why not, my dear?" said the bespectacled, brown-haired young giant, toying with an espresso cup between one big thumb and forefinger. "The old adage applies: telephone, telegraph, tell a woman." 

"Hank!" She slapped his leg underneath the table. "Anyway, Bernard, the reason Scott and Jeannie aren't here with us tonight is that they got married. Isn't that fabulous?" 

Bernard's mouth O'ed, then he said, "My gracious sakes alive, Miss Vera, that's wonderful. Simply blessed. To think that the two of them couldn't accompany you here tonight for a teensy bit of time...yes, indeed, I would compose a wedding poem on the very spot for them." 

"Maybe that's why they didn't," said Bobby, dryly. 

"Manners, chum," reminded Hank. "Besides, we know a better reason why they didn't, and they're undoubtedly..." 

"How many times do I have to slap you, Henry P. McCoy?" Vera's hand was held in pre-whack position. 

"Subside, subside, Vera, m'dear, t'was all in good comradely fashion jested." Hank put his big hand around Vera's, dwarfing it for a second, and bussed her on the cheek. "We'll give them your best, Bernard, and as soon as they get settled I'll wager we can bring the connubial couple back for another visit. This, too, is part of their history." 

"As it is of mine, Hank." Bernard steadied himself against a chair. "When I first tread this floor, Sputnik hadn't yet gone up. Eisenhower's term was yet young. Beats were Beats then, even more Beaten than today...though, I admit, today we seem more beaten in a sadder and more literal way. Deflated more than beaten, I suspect." 

"Oh, c'mon, Bernie," said Bobby, rubbing his cheek and feeling the nubs to have something to do. "Don't get depressed. For crying out loud, you're over draft age. What do you have to worry about?" 

"I'd say he has a hell of a lot to worry about," came another voice. "And so do you." 

The attention of the party was drawn to a man who dressed in such a fashion as to make one mistake him for Lamont Cranston's alter ego. Bernard knew he was the only one old enough to get that reference. Except that the man dressed in brown. Brown slouch hat, upturned collar, and pants. And...well, his shoes... 

They were purple. And they seemed to be boots. 

The young men at the table were standing, putting the women behind them. Bernard glanced at them. This man might simply be a hostile fruitcake, and in need of a bouncer. He didn't look like a biker type, which should have been hopeful. But...somehow, Bernard was not hopeful at all. 

The man swept the hat off his head and was damnably green underneath. 

Bobby knew he should pretend to fail to recognize the man, secret identities needing to be protected. But if the guy was here, and knew them, then he obviously knew who they were in their other i.d.'s. Because that was how he had met them. 

"Mesmero," said Bobby. 

"What?" asked Bernard, feeling as though Orson Welles were about to step from behind the curtain and tell everyone the green man was just a hoax. But when the green man put a purple glove against his chest and shoved him aside, he disabused himself of that illusion. 

"I owe you, X-Men," he said, focusing on the three males, as the girls gasped and looked at each other behind him. "I owe the other two of you, as well. But they're not here tonight, so you'll just have to do." 

Bobby's hands were icing up. Warren was starting to take off his coat and shirt. Hank was slipping off his shoes. None of them took their eyes off the green man. He was drawing attention. Considering the clientele, that took some doing. 

A guy in a tie-dyed undershirt sitting nearby puffed a joint and said, "Man, you are like chartreuse. Pretty. Like the valley of the jolly, ho-ho-ho..." 

The man Bobby called Mesmero whirled on the man and looked him in the eye. 

The smoker widened his eyes to their greatest extent, dropped the j from his mouth without even thinking of Bogarting it, and clasped both hands to his head. He fell to the floor, rolled on the planks, and screamed in pain. 

It was then that Zelda Morton burst out of the kitchen. "What's going on here?" she called out, still wearing a dishwasher's apron. 

"Zelda!" Bobby wheeled, his hands encased in whitening ice, the wrists of his jacket damp. 

"Back inside, quickly!" snapped Hank. She saw Bobby and was on the verge of saying something. But she saw the green man, and couldn't say anything. 

Mesmero turned to her and locked eyes with Zelda. "Come here," he ordered. 

"Get back inside," Bobby warned. "Go, Zelda!" 

"Do as he says, Zelda," said Bernard, not daring to move without knowing the green man's game. 

But the brown-haired girl was as unable to resist as Trilby would be to defy Svengali. Her face contorted in shock, as her legs carried her further into the room. She went to Mesmero's side, wonderingly, and he put an arm about her. He smiled, coldly. "So you like her," he said. 

Zelda looked frightened, but said nothing. "Let her go, Mez," said Bobby. "Your fight's with us, not her." 

Bernard always regretted the next thing that he did, which was to let his eyes wander over Mesmero's shoulder towards the young bouncer, Gerald, who was about to whack a Tiki cane into the side of the green man's head. Mesmero turned his head, locked eyes with Gerald, and the cane stopped in mid-swing. Gerald was as paralyzed as Zelda, and that position he was locked in just had to be taxing. 

Bobby shielded his eyes with an arm, iced up all the way, wasting his jacket and pants in the process, and let fly with an iceball. Mesmero managed to dodge it, but it splattered off a table behind them and showered the patrons with freezy stuff. Then there was screaming. People were about to play stomp-each-other-to-the-exit. 

"Stop!" yelled Mesmero, and raked the crowd with his gaze as he yelled it. Not all of them looked up at him, but enough did to quell the stampede. They froze. 

Hank McCoy had surged for Mesmero, and managed to knock him over a table, going down with him. Warren had his shirt off, had exposed great white wings, and was headed over towards them, several feet off the floor. Bobby was headed in their general direction. 

Bernard, hustling Vera and Candy to a safer place and promising himself to come back for Zelda, muttered, "Oh my God. They're the X-Men. That explains everything." 

Then the fight-that-was-to-be was no more. Hank, Warren, and Bobby ceased their attack, and merely stood, lay, or knelt there. "Stand up," ordered Mesmero. 

They did. 

Bernard, moistening his lips, stood regarding the green man. "How did you do that thing?" 

Mesmero regarded him with contempt. "I can show you first-hand, if you'd like." 

"Uh, no, no. Really, that won't be necessary." Bernard held up his hands. "They said your name was Mesmero. I assume, then, that you've, uh, mesmerized them?" 

Behind him, he heard Vera saying, "Candy, did you know that Warren was really...?" 

And Candy saying, "Yes, but did you know that Hank and Bobby were...?" 

"No." 

"Oh. Okay." 

Play for time, poet, he told himself. Make believe that this is merely a sheriff with a summons, telling you to vacate the property because some kid was caught in here with the Killer Weed. 

"Well, why here?" asked Bernard, spreading his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "I mean, I should be flattered for the attention, it'll probably bring business to my place, but--" 

"You should SHUT UP!" 

"Oh, well, if you, uh, insist," muttered Bernard. 

Mesmero gazed at all of them, turning in a circle. Finally, he spoke again, not facing Bernard. "It took quite a bit of planning," he said. "But I finally caught them off their guard. Away from their professor. Here." 

"Um. Well," said Bernard. "Care for a cappucino?" 

The green man went on. "They thought they'd humiliated me. Embarrassed me, yes. Great God, who wouldn't be, when he thought he'd been working with Magneto and an army of mutants and found out the whole pack of them were just a bunch of androids?" 

"That would be disconcerting, yes," said Bernard, motioning the girls to get out the back way, if they could reach it. 

"Don't," said Mesmero, sternly, and turned his head. The girls couldn't avoid looking at him. All three stopped. 

"That's my power," confided Mesmero. "The power to control minds. Thus, my name: Mesmero." 

"Yes, yes, of course," said Bernard, stepping between him and the girls. "So you're controlling the mind of everyone in the place now, except me?" 

"I am." 

"And, um, why not..." 

"Because I need someone to talk to," he said. "I would have used that fool over there, but he looked at me when I was placing the crowd under control." 

Mesmero was pointing at a nattily-dressed person standing nonchalantly with the rest of the clientele. Bernard saw him and put a hand to his face. Of all the nights for this to happen, why did it have to be one when that idiotic New Journalist had to be in here? 

"Go on," said Bernard, massaging the bridge of his nose. 

"I learned it all when the Sentinels took us," rasped Mesmero. "They turned my 'Magneto' into a heap of bolts. I damned myself for a fool, but damned the X-Men more. And I promised to hunt them down when they were not prepared for battle, hunt them down when they were in their secret identities. Of course, I had to discover what their secret identities were, first." 

"Of course," the poet echoed. 

"The Sentinels made that easy. They gathered an entire pack of mutants in their headquarters for disposal. I probed the minds of the lot of them, looking for clues. They'd fought the X-Men, too, mostly. And in the Blob's mind, I found it. He didn't even know he had it." 

"Well," said Bernard, "what was it?" 

"Their identities," said Mesmero. "He'd been recruited by them. Their professor had repressed the Blob's memories of their civilian selves, but I found them and had him tell me. He didn't even know he was doing it. He still doesn't know consciously who they are." 

"I'm sure that's...most reassuring." 

"I discovered that the X-Men frequented your dive," said Mesmero. Bernard was about to protest, but the mentalist mutant stopped him with a look. "For weeks on end, I frequented your place, drinking that whatever-it-is you sell, wiping the memory of my presence from you and your clientele, until the night they came back. And now that night has come." 

"So...what happens next?" said Bernard. 

"What happens is that I take the three X-fools with me, and you will never see me or them again," said Mesmero. "Indeed, no one will ever see them again. By their own hands, they will perish. And you will not remember this. Only Mesmero will know of Mesmero's final triumph." 

"Oh, bother all that," said another voice. 

Bernard and Mesmero both turned to the speaker. 

The eyes of the three X-Men were turned towards him, so they saw him, too. The newcomer was known to them. 

He was a blackhaired man whose temples were shot through with grey. He had a mustache and neatly trimmed beard, and wore a jewel of blue on his forehead. His costume was orange with green sleeves and boots, and he had a green cape embroidered with wizard's stars, moons, and planets in gold. 

"And who are you?" said Mesmero, not pleased. 

"Names," said the man, diffidently. "I've worn a few in my time. Once, they called me Merlin." 

"Merlin?" Bernard was drop-mouthed. He'd done his time studying Arthurian and Celtic mythology. Could this man, too, be an aficionado? But, still...he didn't look like the type Bernard would really want to sit around the wine table with. 

"Oh, yes," nodded the man. "I wasn't the real article, the real Merlin found me and entombed me. But I did walk with King Arthur for a time, yes, I did." 

"King Arthur!" Mesmero scoffed. "Wendell Willkie, most likely." 

"You are being impertinent," said the Merlin man, and he did not look humorous when he said it. "I found myself reawakened in this time, tried to seize power, would have done so except for an impertinent hero who styled himself after the legendary Thor. I refashioned myself, called myself the Warlock, and encountered these--" He gestured to the three heroes. "--X-Men. Another rather disappointing encounter. I limped away from that, became the Maha Yogi, and once again met defeat at the hands of two of these. This one, whom we both know as the Beast, and that one, whom they call Iceman. The fact that I am a mutant, even as they are, nettles me to no end." 

"Oh, really," remarked Mesmero, his arms folded. "You're one of the club, too." 

"I might be said to have founded the club," said the other. "But I will go by the name Maha Yogi, since it was the last I used. Now. I broke jail without too much difficulty once I gathered my powers again. I, too, deduced that the Beast and Iceman must be habitues of this area, since they found me so quickly when I set up my previous enterprise here...the 'Psycho-Rama'. So I waited, and I baited, and in due time, I found you." 

"What?" said Mesmero and Bernard, together. 

"Yes," the Maha nodded. "You didn't detect me? Well, I detected you. I suppose I've had a little more experience in shielding my mental emanations, by a few centuries. When I discovered what you were up to, I let you play my stalking horse. Now, if you'll excuse me, I will take two of these off your hands. My generosity--that I leave you the one with wings." 

Mesmero stepped forward, getting in the Maha's face. "In an Arthurian pig's eye. The three of them are mine, and mine they shall stay." 

The Maha drew himself to his full height, and his eye gleamed with power. "Then you'd match power with me? En garde, you rank pretender to the craft." 

"Oh, I'd love to," said Mesmero. "But I don't have to. On all sides, you're surrounded by my slaves. And I shall forthwith command them to tear you limb from mustache, because I doubt you can override my control that easily." 

The ancient mutant smiled. "Before I came here, I made another stop, to a competitor's establishment. Arthur never went into battle without reinforcements, and I...well, come in, ladies and gentlemen." 

The front doors slammed open and into the already mildly crowded place trooped at least thirty people, mostly young, but a couple of oldsters. Among them, Bernard recognized the owner and proprietor of the Coffee Bean, that upstart joint two blocks away. Damn it! To have to have him on the premises, on this day of days...it simply reeked. 

And yet...and yet... 

Mesmero was still facing the Maha Yogi. "Make your move," he said. 

"Make yours," said the Maha, all too coolly. 

"I said it first," claimed Mesmero. 

"I said it best," asserted the Maha. 

"I warn you, you tinhorn T. H. White fanatic--" 

"T. H. White?" The Maha looked puzzled. "Who is--" 

The speech was cut off as Bernard cracked Gerard's cane across the tops of both their heads. Both went down, grabbing their craniums, but neither was knocked out. The poet scrambled across to the three zombified mutant heroes. He slapped their faces. "Come on, snap out of it," he said. "You've got to snap out of it. Klatuu baradda niktu." 

A bit of clarity seemed to waver into Iceman's eyes. He blinked, twice. 

Behind him, Mesmero pulled himself up against a wall, turned to the Coffee A Go Go habitues, and pointed at the invaders. "Get them!" he cried. 

The Maha, not to be outdone, came up from a kneeling position, looked at his troops, and pointed at the defenders. "Get them!" he yelled. 

And, while the two of them leaped at each other and started to mind-blast and punch and kick all at the same time, the fifty to sixty people in the beatnik heaven came towards each other, chose opponents of appropriate sex and hopefully those who looked like they weighed less, if they could manage it, squared off, and let fly. 

"Oh, dear," said Bernard, who was still holding the cane. 

"Bernie," said Iceman. 

The poet turned his head. The crystal-clad mutant had two snowballs in his hands. 

"I've got to bring Hank and Warren around. Take care of the girls!" 

"Oh, yes, the girls," said Bernard, looking towards Candy, Vera, and Zelda. "To be sure, I'll..." 

That was when Simon Simms, the owner of the Coffee Bean, ran up and punched him in the gut. 

Bernard doubled, came up gasping, and saw that the sonofasoandso was grinning. A little zombied in the eyes, but grinning. 

He came up with a right from near the floor and hung it on Simms's jaw. The two fell to grappling on the floor. Bernard could see the girls, taking cover behind a Dr. Pepper machine. He loosened one of Simms's hands from his throat. "Ladies," he croaked. "Upstairs. Lock the door. Call the police. NOW!" 

Vera and Candy did just that, dragging Zelda between them. 

Bernard head-butted Simms and punched him, taking a punch back. My God, to be dropped in the midst of a John Ford Western right here, he thought. 

He smiled as he bulled the both of them over a table. 

Iceman looked out at the melee, saw women pulling hair, guys trading punches, people bashing each other over the head with ceramic coffee cups, a couple of enterprising types who had gotten into the kitchen and were lobbing pizza dough splat in people's faces, two waiters swatting each other with wet towels, a guy in a Nehru jacket actually swinging from a hanging light fixture and landing with booted feet on the back of some cleancut brown-haired type who really looked like he was in the wrong place. The brown-haired guy was knocked down but not hurt, and a big guy in a U.S. Army uniform, clean down to the cap, who was with him, grabbed the fixture-swinger, turned him upside down, and bonked his head soundly on top of a wooden table. Two girls who were apparently with the two guys, one a blonde and the other a redhead, were holding bottles but looked unsure of what to do with them, until two bravos from the other side came up and apparently offered to make love, not war. Then the women discovered what to do with the bottles, and both swains went down. 

On top of that, the New Journalist was standing on a table in the corner, scribbling in shorthand on the reporter's pad he always carried with him, and fetching a kick at anyone who came near him. The action seemed to be swirling away from him, leaving him an observer, which role he appeared content with. 

Iceman spread his hands before him and covered the floor in a spray of white. Those in its path slipped and slid as if on an ice rink and went down, flopping but still grappling. The sub-zero paladin whirled, throwing snow-bursts through the crowd, distracting the combatants with slushballs that spattered on their person and made them draw in deep, gasping breaths, forgetting the fight for a second, but only for that. Bobby knew he was going to have to go after the two who were really controlling the action. But as he searched the room for them, he felt two hands on his shoulders. One hand was big, the other was normal-sized. 

"Going somewhere, Bobby?" said the Beast, in friendly fashion. 

The Beast and the Angel swung their arms and propelled Bobby face-first into a wall. He yelped in pain. Great. Just great. 

As he turned around to try and face them, he felt Hank's great arm slam into his throat and pin him to the wall. Both Beast and Angel were in costume now. Apparently they felt it was the thing to do at the time. 

"Sorry you have to be on the other side," said Beast, the trace of Mesmero-zombieism still in his eyes. Beyond him, Bobby could see the Angel, picking up a table and about to carry it through the air towards him. 

"Sorry you...have to see it that way," said Iceman, just before he turned and spat a big chunk of slush full in Hank's face. He grabbed the Beast by the underarms and unloaded two whopping helpings of freezestuff along his old friend's sides. 

"Ahhhh!" gasped the Beast, his eyes widening in shock. "Why, Bobby, that's...positively tundraic!" 

"You said it, big buddy," replied Iceman, and ducked under the Beast, running between his legs as Angel splintered the table against the wall where his head had been. 

Bobby spread more ice before him, skidding on it with his booted feet like a champion skater. The room was beginning to resemble a Christmas scene set in a Popeye cartoon. Champions of the Coffee-A-Go-Go and the Coffee Bean slipped, slid, and still punched away like crazy. It was pure, unadulterated hell. 

And, as he saw out of the corner of his eye, Bernard looked like he was loving it. The guy who ran the Coffee Bean was trading licks with him like John Wayne and the Irish brawler in The Quiet Man. 

Where the hell were the Maha and Mesmero? 

A heavy thump told him that the Beast had leapt nearby. Bobby turned to see Hank charging, just before he got grabbed from behind by a diving Warren. The two of them skidded across the floor on ice before Bobby managed to splatter a snowball across the Angel's eyes and kick free. 

Hank tore up a plank from the floor and narrowly missed whacking Bobby with it. This was getting dangerous. 

Cartwheeling across the floor, Iceman finally saw the two villainous mutants near the jukebox. Both of them were holding onto each other's necks and staring into each other's eyes, and yelling as if giving each other the mother of all migraines. He stretched out a hand in preparation for an iceblast in their direction. 

The Angel grabbed it, forced it down. 

The Beast, grinning an idiotic grin, loped forward, his plank-weapon in hand. 

But on the way, he tripped over something somebody stuck in front of his ankles, fell flat on his face, and let the board go skidding across the floor. 

Bernard looked up, gesturing with the cane he'd used to trip the Beast with. "Go," he said to Iceman. That was all he had to say before Simon Simms jumped on his back and started belting him with an empty coffeepot. 

Iceman looked at Warren, grimly, and said, "You gonna let go, pal?" 

"No way," said the Angel, grinning, starting to lift them both off the floor. 

"Sorry," Bobby said. He had been holding his free hand behind his back. When he brought it out into full view, it was covered with enough solid ice to make it the size of a sledgehammer. 

With surprising force, he brought it cracking across Warren's jaw. The Angel's eyes crossed, and he fell back to the floor, sending Bobby sprawling for a moment. From his vantage point, he could see a brown-haired kid managing to make it into the restrooms. He could also see the Maha and Mesmero, still grappling, yelling, and mind-blasting by the jukebox. 

The Beast leapt before him, a bit snow-laden, and apparently very angry. "Well, Bobby," he said, "time to pay the proverbial piper." His great hands loomed before him, at approximately the level of Iceman's neck. 

For answer, Iceman sent a shaft of cold energy between his hands. In seconds, a shaft about an inch in diameter and six feet in length was in his palms. 

He leapt up, jammed one end of it in the floor just before the Beast, and, with a great cry of "Alley OOP!", vaulted right over him. 

Making a two-point landing on both booted feet, Iceman crouched to take the impact, only a few feet from the brawling masterminds. Both were about to go to their knees, but neither one wanted to give up the fight. 

As it was, they had to interrupt hostilities when two helmets of ice splatted about their heads. 

Mesmero said something in a muffled voice that wasn't very nice. To which the Maha, who was awfully glad to be free of the pain induced by the brain-blasting, said, "Oh, shut up, you pipsqueak! I'll have us out of here in a moment." 

And he did, with an application of mental force that punched straight through the icy coatings, over both his and Mesmero's heads. 

The problem was that there was an application of physical force that came their way directly afterward, in the form of Angel's and Beast's fists. To their credit, it didn't take more than once to do the job. Mesmero and the Maha slumped to the floor, right in front of the silent juke, leaning against each other. 

"Out cold," said Iceman, permitting himself one pun. 

The other two turned and looked at him with pained faces. "Bobby," said the Angel. "You know that--" 

"Bobby, m'lad," said the Beast, "I hope you'll forgive me--" 

The Iceman grinned. "Forget it, guys. I know you were under control. How much do you remember?" 

"Too much," allowed Angel. He jerked a thumb towards the patrons, who were picking themselves up from the shambles. "How much do they remember?" 

The three looked at each other, then at the crowd. 

"Let's check on the girls," said the Beast. 

Behind them, seen by probably nobody, Spider-Man peeked his head through the ceiling portion of the hall that led to the restrooms. He took the scene in at a glance and scurried back in. 

A few seconds later, Peter Parker came out to check on Flash and Mary Jane and Gwen. 

The mutant trio came down from the office, Candi and Vera and Zelda in hand. The latter was still coming back to herself, blinking and looking around at the place. 

There was slush all over the floor, and people sprawled in and around it. Tables were knocked over or splintered. Chairs were much the same. A plank was torn out of the floor. Bits of busted crockery and dented metal kept company with pizza dough and raw hamburger and spilled sauces.   
The former combatants who were still awake (thankfully, nobody seemed badly hurt) looked at their opponents, looked at themselves and their upraised fists or makeshift weapons, and wondered what in the hell had just gone on here, even though memory was flooding back. 

They caught sight of the three X-Men with the women. 

Somebody started to clap. 

Somebody else joined him. 

Before long, the place was filled with applause, both from those folks on their feet and those who were conscious but occupying the floor. The Coffee a Go Go rang with cheers, and the Beast couldn't resist doing a handstand on one finger for the crowd. Iceman grinned and gave a big hammy wave. After Candi elbowed him, the Angel did the same. 

Zelda finally ventured to speak. "Are you Bobby?" 

Iceman looked at her, thought about putting up a front, and then sighed and said to her, "What do you think?" 

"I think...I don't know what to think," she said. 

"Yeah. Well, that makes two of us." 

The Beast bounded back to them. "I think it urgent that we telephone the Professor and see if a mind-blanket can somehow be applied. It's a long distance and I don't know that it'll be effective, but it's worth a try." 

The New Journalist materialized before them. "Sorry, I couldn't help seeing you looking like you'd had a bad pizza. Secret identities, right?" 

"Uh, yeah," said Angel, holding Candi's hand tightly. "Say, are you--" 

"Got just the thing," said the scribe. "Wait here. I'll be right back." 

The Journalist stepped out the door, walked briskly three blocks down, one block west, and clanked the clanker in front of a certain door. It opened. A bald Asian man looked out. "Yes?" 

"Wong? Tell the Doctor who's waiting. And tell him I need him to make a house call." 

-X- 

...And with a little memory treatment that proved just to be what the strange doctor ordered, both yours truly and all the survivors of the Coffee A Go Go Massacree were left without knowledge of who the Tres Mutantes really were, but at least when somebody said, "Hey, who were those masked men, anyway?", we could smile with Pride and say, "Why, son, those were the famous Beast, Angel, 'n' Iceman of them thar X-Men! And one of 'em wasn't wearin' a mask!"   
...And Bernard and the Amazing Simon Simms actually got a chance to take another poke at each other after it went down, which they did, but as for who walked away On His Own Two Feet and Under His Own Steam But It Won't Be Me, I ain't tellin'...   
...And Mesmero of the Chartreuse Face and the Maha I'm-smarter-than-the-average-Yogi were taken in hand with a little help, we trust, from the very strange doctor and placed in Brainbuster Helmets designed by SHIELD itself during the Mentallo Mixup of some years back, which leaves both of them unable to even guess what patterns are on cards held by some dude who asks them, "Star, square, or circle?", and while the crime of weed will buy you two to five in the Tombs, the weed of crime in their case bears bitter fruit, 'cause both mental mutant maniacs are up for twenty to life, we hear, on Riker's Island, that marriage of Alcatraz and Stark Industries technology, where super-villains are Al Caponed for a long time, or at least till their next gigs...   
...And as for me? Well, for taking part in the dust-up, what little I did, and becoming an Action Hero In My Own Right, and facing two dreaded super-villains with only my number two pencil and a Scripto writing pad for weaponry...   
...I figure I've earned the right to call myself an Honorary Good Mutant.   
Maybe.   
Sentinels Beware.   
--Tom Wolfe, "Coffee-House Mutants and the Big Green Showdown", ibid. 

-X- 

Bobby Drake, in a fresh suit of clothes, was walking with Zelda in the early morning and neither of them were holding hands. There were a few people out but Bobby didn't feel that what he was going to say was going to tip anyone off to his freeze-dried identity. 

Finally, he said, "Thanks for letting me walk with you." 

Zelda shrugged. 

They kept walking. 

"I wished it'd been some other way, Zel," he said. "I really wish--" 

"You really wish there hadn't been two super-villains out there and that I didn't know who you really were," she said, standing still. "Right?" 

He stopped, not far away from her. "Right. More or less." 

"What's more or less, Bobby? You're who you are. That changes everything." 

"Everything?" 

She looked at him. "Almost everything." 

"Zelda, I'm sorry." 

"You should be." 

"Well, I am. I am, Zel. It's just that..." He grabbed hold of an iron fence nearby, with both hands. "What am I supposed to say? I thought I was in love with her more. But she wasn't in love with me. And now I don't think she was the right girl for me." 

"Oh, I'm glad you noticed. Was it before or after she ran off with someone else?" 

"Before," he admitted. "I guess it was before. But I didn't want to admit it." 

"Big of you," she said, hands on her hips. She walked past him. He followed. 

"Zelda." 

She whirled. "Well, what about me? I mean, what about me, Bobby? Am I just some old sponge mop that you can throw down when you're done with it, and, and pick up the next time you need it, or what?" 

"Zelda, please." He lay hands on her shoulders. She took them off. He still stood before her. 

"You were never that to me," he said. "Never. Even when I...when that happened...don't you think I still had a space in my heart for you?" 

She didn't look at him. "Not as big a one as you did for her." 

"Damn it, will you listen? Will you just please listen, Zelda? I'm trying to tell you I love you." 

"Like that makes it all right," she said. "Like that makes everything all right." 

"Well, no. No, it doesn't. But I...Zelda, two people can start over again. If they want to. Don't you believe that?" 

She walked down, towards a fireplug, then turned. "If both of them want to, Bobby. And don't...don't pretend that what I know about you now, doesn't change things." 

He caught up to her. "I wouldn't expect it to. Don't you know that if we'd gotten much further than we had, I'd have had to tell you? Because I would have been asking you to marry me." 

"To--" 

"Oh, jeez." He put a hand to his eyes. "What have I just said?" 

"You said you would have been asking me to marry you." 

"Yeah." He looked at her. "Well?" 

"No, Bobby." 

"Oh. Just great." 

"I mean, not a total no." 

He looked at her. "What do you mean, not a total no? Isn't a no a no? I mean, is there a less than negative no? I don't understand." 

"Of course you don't. You never understand. Don't you think I loved you, Bobby? Don't you know what I felt like when you...when you..." She turned her head. 

"Oh, Zelda. Please." He touched her shoulder. 

"Don't touch me," she said. "You haven't earned it." Her voice was shaking. 

"Then...how the hell do I earn it?" 

She whirled, looked at him with blue-steel anger, and slapped him across the face. 

He rubbed it for a moment and worked his jaw. "So," he said. "Is that a down payment?" 

Zelda turned and ran in the direction of her walk-up. He started to run after her. She turned her head and yelled, "Don't! Don't you dare follow me, Bobby Drake!" 

So he didn't. 

He stood and watched as she ran a block and a half down, went up a flight of stairs and through a door, and was lost to sight. 

After awhile he turned and started walking back. 

-X- 

The Coffee A Go Go was closed for repairs, understandably. So the war council took place in the flat Bobby and Hank were renting. Vera was there. So was Bernard. 

"San Francisco, then?" said Hank, holding a wine glass over a spread-out map of the United States. 

"I guess that's it," said Vera. "You've got an interview with Roxxon's branch out there, and I think I can find a secretarial job while I night school myself into oblivion." 

"Or a degree," smiled Bernard, over a cup of mocha. 

"Whichever comes first," she said. 

"So," said Bernard. "When will, um, the blessed nuptials be forthcoming? Not that I'm trying to be premature, but..." 

"You'll be the first to know, Bernard," said Hank. "We want you to come with us." 

"Me?" The poet almost dropped his cup. "Why, I'm...I mean, I...great grief, Hank, I'm no super-hero, I'm a...a great last veteran of the Beat Generation! The city needs me." 

Hank laid a great hand on Bernard's shoulder. "The city has a lot of coffeehouses, Bernard. But friends are hard to come by. Think of it...the city by the proverbial Bay." 

Bernard considered it. "The City Lights Book Store." 

"Concerts in the park. Grateful Deadsters waiting to hear the True Word." 

"Allen Ginsburg," said Bernard, wistfully. "Not that I'd ever, really, put myself anywhere near his league." 

"You're in a league of your own, Bernard," smiled Vera. "Really. Come on. What's holding you here?" 

"Only a...well, I suppose I could call it a silver umbilical. My interest in the Coffee a Go Go, for instance. Half ownership." 

Vera and Hank looked at him. 

"But," he said at last. 

"But ownerships can be sold. And umbilicals, well...they're useful. But they're made to be broken." 

Both of them smiled at him. The Beast held out his hand. "Welcome to the family, Bernard." 

For once, he didn't have anything to say. Until he looked at Bobby. 

"Excuse me," he said. 

"Understood," said Hank McCoy. 

Bobby Drake was sitting cross-legged by the telephone book under a flexible lamp. It was open to the M's and a black dial phone was by his side. He hadn't taken the receiver off the hook. 

"Call her up," said Bernard. 

"She doesn't want me to," Bobby answered. 

"Oh? So you have the mental abilities of the Maha Yogi, in addition to your other powers? Call her up." 

"Bernard." Bobby looked at him, angrily. "This is not. One of. Those things. You make a freaking. POEM. Out of." 

"Oh?" He drew himself up to his full height and looked down at Bobby. "They've stopped making poems about love?" 

"Bernard, I..." 

"They've stopped making poems about women who shout out their anger at men, and then go to their rooms to cry by the phone, waiting for the demon of Alexander Graham Bell to sound its clarion call?" 

"Bernard." 

"They've stopped making poems about men who are too stupid to do the simplest thing in the world, which is give the woman they love a second chance?" 

Bobby looked down at the floor. 

Bernard held the reciever out as he walked past. 

Bobby took it. 

Bernard continued on, gently herding Hank and Vera with him into the kitchen. Vera decided to fry an omelet. 

"How long do you think we'll have to wait?" said Hank. 

The sound of the door slamming was heard. 

"About that long," said Bernard. 

-X- 

Later that week, after the final ends had been tied and the hands had been shaken with the relatives and the blessings had been given by the professor, the intrepid little crew boarded their two rented orange U-Haul vans and began their trip cross country. They waved at those who came to see them off. Those who came to see them off waved back. 

Bobby, at the wheel of the second vehicle, looked across the seat. 

Zelda looked back. She ventured a smile, for a second, then looked out the windshield. 

"Thanks, Zelda," he said. 

"Hey, wait until we get there to thank me," she said. "At this point, I'm just along for the ride." 

"You can have your own room. I mean, we agreed to that." 

"I'm going to have my own apartment," she said. "To live in." 

"Alone?" 

She nodded, shortly. "But that's maybe not an absolute alone." 

"Oh. Okay," said Bobby, who was learning. 

"Ask me that when we get there," she said. "Again, that is." 

"Okey dokey." He watched the signs on the bridge go by overhead. Then he took the mike of one of the two new CB's Hank had bought and activated it. "Breaker breaker. This is the Icebreaker. Over." 

Hank's voice came back. "Ah, pository on that, Icebreaker, this here is the Erudite Immigrant. Is my fifty-four catchin' you on the flip-flop, O cold worm of the Big Apple?" 

Bobby smiled. "I think the patter could do a little improving, Hank. How's it look from your viewpoint?" 

"All I can say right now is something I've been waiting several weeks to say," replied Hank. "Farewell, New York!" 

"Yeah," breathed Bobby. Then he said it louder. "Farewell, New York! San Francisco, here we come!" 

He felt a pressure on his arm. He looked. 

Zelda was holding his arm. She was smiling. Shyly, but she was smiling. 

He smiled back. 

Vera's voice was the next one heard. "How's your copilot doing over there, Bobby? Still awake?" 

"Oh, yes," said Zelda. "And hoping there's a Stuckey's somewhere in the next hour or so." 

Bernard was heard next. "Thank you, Vera," he said. "I've composed a poem in honor of our escaping the surly bonds of Manhattan. And, just because we are escaping...I won't read it." 

All four of the others cheered. Hank said, "Isn't it usual on movies about the road for the cast to break into extemporaneous song?" 

"So what should we sing?" said Vera. "Any ideas?" 

"If you're goin', to San Francisco," started Zelda, "Be sure to wear, some flowers in..." 

"Oh, no, not that song," said Bernard, with distaste. "Forgive me, dear Zelda, but I've had enough Scott McKenzie to last me for a lifetime! The only flowers I'll plant will be on his grave. Gah! Makes Rod McKuen sound listenable." 

"Hmmm," said Bobby. "Then what? 'I Left My Heart In...'" 

"No," said Bernard. "No. I...ahem. Well, that's a possibility. A good one, at that. A verse written by my own personal inspiration, Woodrow himself." 

"Woodrow?" said Hank. 

"Guthrie, to be precise," said Bernard. And he began to sing: 

"If you ain't got that Dough-Re-Mi, boys,   
If you ain't got that Dough-Re-Mi,   
Then you better move back to beautiful Texas...   
Oklahoma, Kansas, down to New Orleans...   
California's a Garden of Eden,   
It's a pleasure to live in or see,   
But believe it or not,   
You won't find it so hot--" 

At the next line Zelda joined in with him. 

"--If you ain't got that dough-re-mi!" 

Bernard started singing the song all over again, and by the time he got to the middle most of the rest had the hang of it. So they kept singing it. 

They made it last all the way to lunchtime, and then a little longer, and found some other songs along the way. 

There was a lot of way to go, and probably a lot of songs to sing. 

But that was okay, Bobby thought, as he looked across the seat at Zelda, and she back at him. 

They had time. 

They had plenty of time. 

******** 

For those of you who don't believe Tom Wolfe was a Marvel Comics character, check out DR. STRANGE (first series) #180 and INCREDIBLE HULK #142. It's been about thirty years since then, so I figured it was high time to give him another shot at it. He didn't write the article excerpts cited above. There is no Easter Bunny, either. 

But Woody Guthrie did write "Dough-Re-Mi". Really. 

Who says this isn't the Marvel Age of Happy Endings? 

********   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	4. A Working Class Mutant Is Something To B...

X-Men 1970: 

A Working Class Mutant Is Something To Be 

by DarkMark 

So this was the way it was, thought Jean Grey Summers. Not quite enough to make you run home to the Professor, but...darned if it didn't make you wish for those days. 

Well, those days weren't here anymore, she reflected, shoving the typewriter carriage back again with her hand, not her telekinetic powers. Now she was out of little old Noo Yawk with a gold band on her finger, possibly a baby growing inside, and a job at a temp agency. Bang-bang-bangity-bang at the keys of a qwertyuiop machine, 8 hours a day, five days a week at different places in and around the medium-sized city of Ector. While we wait, my dear, for the local school districts to pass judgment on my application, she told herself. While we hope for a job teaching grade school brats (not brats, don't be so harsh, dear, only children, tell yourself that again and again) and we hope that some of the modelling agencies we've sent photos to and put feelers towards again will take a second chance on the little redhead who walked out on them a couple years ago... 

Bangity-bangity-click. Dear sirs, We regret to inform you that due to your failure to pay your electric bill...we are sending over Magneto and the Blob to destroy your garage. No, no, don't type that. If you do, make sure you can levitate the Liquid Paper over here real quick. 

Mrs. Minten clacked up in her black high heels and early frump dress. "Mrs. Summers," she said. 

"Oh," said Jean, nervously. Her elbow nudged the water glass by her side and, despite herself, she used her TK power to halt it before it could tip over. She hoped that the grab she made for it with her other hand looked convincing enough. "Yes, ma'am?" 

Mrs. Minten, her temporary boss at her temporary job, looked critically at her. "Are you certain you've done this sort of work before? Satisfactorially, I mean?" 

"Oh, yes, Mrs. Minten," said Jean, not daring to smile. "At the Xavier School I handled most of the professor's correspondence and such." 

"That's good, Mrs. Summers, because I've noted your speed is about what one would expect from a starting temp. That is, you're adequate. By such standards, of course." 

"Oh, well, thank you." She hesitated, then reached for another form to assault with her typewriter. "Anything else I can do for you before you go?" 

"Why, certainly, Mrs. Summers." The older woman produced a manila folder from behind her back. If Mrs. Minten's grip hadn't been cast iron, it would have leaked papers from its overstuffed confines. She dropped it on Jean's desk. Some of the contents tried to spill out, but couldn't make it, like cons getting shot down before making it over the wall. Jean looked at it and buried her teeth in her lower lip. 

Mrs. Minten was still talking. "We trust you'll have worked through these by the end of the day. That will be enough time, won't it, Mrs. Summers?" 

"Ah, trust," Jean fumfuhed. "Yes, Mrs. Minten, trust is good. Basis of a relationship between employee and employer, even on a temporary basis. You can, you can, uh, trust me to make a frontal assault on these papers. That's what us temps are for." 

"Good," said Mrs. Minten, attempting to beam. "We'll send out for lunch. Burger King be fine by you?" 

"Oh, absolutely," Jean averred, her fingers already bangity-banging again. "No onions or tomatoes. Please." 

The temporary supervisor walked off. Lord, if You are listening, she thought, have Factor Three assault the main gate so I can put on my green miniskirt and yellow mask and save the day and not have to finish all this dad-blamed steno work. 

Neither Factor Three nor any other sort of registered super-villain made an attack on the electric company that day. Sighing, Jean grasped her coat with frazzled fingers at 5:45 and resolved to hit church on Sunday with a prayer request for evil mutants. 

Them was the days. 

-X- 

"And that's the 6:00 report, I'm Scott Summers for WESR, Empire State Radio. Next news at 10 p.m. See you tomorrow...auf wedersehen." 

He cut the mike, brought the volume pot up on the cart that played the news theme, and then hit the button on a jingle cart. "W-E-S-R," chorused the singers. By the time the last letter was out, he had a Creedence song pumping away on the left-hand turntable. He sighed, got up, stretched. Donny Tallent was outside the booth, waving. Time to get the heck out. 

Scott opened the door and let Donny in to take over. "Hot time, Summers in the city," cried Tallent, flinging wide his arms. "Don't tell me you ever get tired of hearing that." 

"I get tired of hearing that, Donny," said Scott, with a half-smile. 

"Well, the back o' my neck's gettin' dirt and gritty," confirmed Donny, who affected a black handlebar mustache and wore a red plaid shirt with blue jeans that had been on him for three work days running. "How you like it so far?" 

"I like it fine, Don," said Scott, letting him by so he could sit down and pull on the headphones. "Wish I was doing news fulltime, but what the hey. It's a job." 

"That it is," agreed Donny, adjusting the phones. He turned up the volume to near pain level. "It ain't much of a living, but it keeps the gut greased and the gas-guzzler fed, or maybe it's the otherdamnway around. You tell me something, Scott." 

"Shoot." 

"Do you really, really think you're all that cool?" 

"What do you mean?" 

"I mean I never, ever see you take them cheaters off, man. Like you think Hollywood's gonna drive up here in a limo, roll out a red carpet from the front door, and say, 'We're lookin' for real cool people, and you are the one, baby!' Like that!" Tallent was grinning even wider. It did not seem humanly possible. "So why, Scotty?" 

Scott fingered his shades. "I've got an eye condition, Don. They can't take strong light, my eyes can't. That's why I wear them, all the time." 

"All the time?" 

"All the time." 

"Even when you're with little Jeannie doin' the..." 

"Hey." 

"I'm just jokin', don't get mad at me." 

"Sure, Donny. But Jeannie is somebody I don't want turned into a landing field for jokes. Okay?" 

"Okay, man. No offense intended." 

"It's cool, Donny. But Jean is off limits, okay?" 

"Received and noted." Creedence was dying down. Donny opened the mike. "AND...it's what you've been waiting for all day, all month, all year, even. Your tax return? Naw! Just the RETURN of DONNY TALLENT!" 

"DON-ny TAL-LENT!" chorused the paid jingle singers. 

"And we are...here with you...up until the midnight hour," advised Donny, under the thrumming beat of a Beatles intro. "Gonna take you well on into your nighttime pursuits, so just...settle down now, and let's all...GET BAAAACK! Do it, John, Paul, Ringo, George, and Billy! Yeah!" 

Scott grinned despite himself and watched Donny uniting himself with the music for a few more seconds. Then he let himself out. He didn't think Donny even noticed. 

There was nobody much around at the parking lot from which he took his Rambler. Quite a letdown from the kind of cars he drove when he was with the Professor. But, let's face it, he told himself, there was no more Professor anymore. Nor was there likely to be a Professor ever again. 

He wondered, pulling out into the early evening traffic, if there would be a Cyclops again, either. 

True, there was a lot to miss, not being an X-Man. The adrenaline rush of facing the Danger Room once a day. The feeling of absolute purpose when the team faced off against an enemy. The bond all six of them, the Professor included, had shared...not just because of the dangerous old non-mutie world outside, but because they really loved each other. 

But he loved Jean more. And even if you love your family, you someday have to leave. You do that when you grow up. He wasn't sure when he had done that, but he knew when he had to admit it to himself. That was the day he stood up to Charles Xavier and told him they were all leaving. 

That hurt. But he had to admit he'd felt transcendent, that day. The umbilical cord had been severed, and he had been freed to make it on his own. 

He'd done it before. He'd had to, when everyone thought (well, almost everyone) that Professor X was dead and the government had asked the X-Men to split up and cover more parts of the country separately. Bobby and Hank had gone one way, the Angel had gone another, and he and Jean had taken a third course. It hadn't lasted, of course...Mesmero, and then Magneto (or a reasonable robot facsimile of him) had turned up and the team had to reband. 

But in that time, he had started to make a life for himself, as had Jeannie. He had become a radio newsman, and Jean had become a model. And he had to admit that, despite not having a mansion to live in, despite having to earn a paycheck every week instead of living on a stipend, it really was a trip. It was being a grownup. 

He had missed it when the X-Men got together again. But the feeling was subsumed under the cameraderie, the esprit de corps. At least, it was until the five of them couldn't afford to ignore it anymore. 

The Professor had come back. He wanted to make it like it was again, lording it over the team, handing out demerits and privelages, regulating their lives for them. 

That was why they had to break away. 

He had asked Jean to marry him and she had said yes. They'd had the wedding a month and a half ago. Now Bobby and Hank were making lives for themselves out in San Francisco, and Warren was finding out how to run Worthington Steel and doing a decent job of it. 

Scott and Jean had come to the upstate city of Ector and looked for work. He tried every radio station in town and landed a job with WESR. Not news reporting full-time, as he had hoped, but mainly jocking with a bit of reporting on the side. That was the way to start out again. That was, perhaps, the only way he could start out again. 

Jean had a degree in education. But she was facing the fact that a lot of other women did, too, and those who had jobs in the school system wanted to hang onto them. So she did temp work as a secretary, and worked on trying to get some modelling gigs together after having been typed as The Girl Who Walked Out On Us A Couple of Years Before. She'd had a little success in that area...mainly newspaper ads and such...but it was a far cry from a well-paying thing, so far. 

But it was what they had. New lives. And each other. And by damn, it was going to work. No more running back to the school, no more giving their lives to the Professor. 

No more Cyclops and Marvel Girl? 

He wondered. 

As he drove off the exit and headed for his neighborhood, Scott Summers still couldn't fit an answer onto that one. 

-X- 

"Honey, I'm home." 

"Oh, god, Scott, don't ever say that again. I'm getting uncontrollable flashbacks to Leave It To Beaver." 

Scott hung up his coat on the tree by the sofa and grinned. "Did I hear you expound once upon your secret feelings for Eddie Haskell?" 

Jean was stirring a pot of something on the stove and, luckily, not scattering too much of it on the white metal top or on her apron. "Yeah. I used to fantasize of being June Cleaver and taking him upstairs and doing perverse things to him." 

"Such as?" Scott loomed in the kitchen doorway. 

"Making him vacuum. Dressed in a maid's outfit." She bent down to the cookpot, but looked up coyly. He grabbed her gently about the waist from behind. 

"Chili?" 

"Chili con carne con queso con a bunch of spices I had around." 

"Mmm." 

"Get away from me or I'll never finish this." 

"Would that be so bad?" 

"Yes. I'm hungry." She felt his chin on her shoulder and rested the side of her head against his. "How was work today, hon?" 

"Work was fine, Jeannie." 

"Anything interesting?" 

"Nope. The local chapter of Students Against the Vietnam Insanity held a mini-rally at the campus. Drew about 100 students and 200 reporters. Business as usual." 

"Did you go?" 

"Wanted to, but the boss said no. He let me cover the mayor's response to it." He was moving his hands over Jean's abdomen, bringing on a response she wouldn't dare admit to yet. 

"What kind of response...did he have?" breathed Jean. 

"Everybody's got a right to protest, even if they are druggie Commie kids who ought to be sent to work camps and rehabilitated, along with bleeding-heart empty-head ACLU types. In other words, his usual." 

"Did they like--stop doing that! Did they like your segment?" 

"Oh, not as much as I like yours." 

The chili pot eerily lifted itself above the stove and floated above Scott's head. "Darling, do you want to eat this or wear it?" 

He looked upwards. "You might get it on yourself, too." 

"I doubt it. I'm highly accurate. Well?" 

Scott disengaged his arms. "If you insist. Satisfied?" 

"Not yet. Save satisfied for after dinner." 

"'I can't get no...'" 

"'Baby, better come back, maybe next week--'" Jean responded. 

He threw up his hands in surrender. "All right. All right. After dinner." 

-X- 

"Scott?" 

"Mmhmm?" 

"I'm worried." 

"What about?" Scott sat up in bed a bit, glad that his quartz contacts were still in place. His left hand stroked the back of Jean's head. "Money?" 

"Nooo...although I s'pose I should be about that. We're both making some, and we're getting by." 

"True, so far. What is it, love of mine?" 

She settled her head against his bare chest. "Well, one of the things I'm worried about, believe it or not, is whether or not we'll have to do the X-thing again." 

"Thought we'd settled that six weeks ago, hon. The team's broken up. We may get together someday, but not till we've learned how to be individuals." 

"Don't mean that," murmured Jean. "It's just been six weeks without being Cyclops and Marvel Girl." 

"Yeah." 

"Do you think we'll ever have to do that again?" 

He paused. "I asked myself that same question today on the way home, Jeannie. Know what?" 

"No. What?" 

"I didn't have an answer." 

"Guess that's good enough. I don't have one, either." 

"I suppose if we have to, we will. But we don't have to. At least not yet." 

"Yeah," she said. 

"Are you glad?" 

"So far." 

"So...anything else you're worried about?" 

"Ohhhh...arguments." 

"Arguments?" 

"Yeah. Arguments." 

"What arguments are you worried about, Jeannie?" 

"We haven't hardly had any yet. That's why I'm worried." 

"Oh! Well, if you want some, I'll try and oblige." 

"Dummy." She slapped his ribs, lightly. "I don't necessarily want or not want 'em. I just know that couples get to the point where they argue, sometime after they're married. And I really don't want them to be bad, when they get here." 

He played with a curl of her hair. "I'll never argue hard enough to hurt you. At least, if I find out I am..." 

"Ohhh, don't worry about that." She sighed and snaked her arm behind his back, hugging him about the side. "Besides, we don't know how they'll go until we have them." 

"I suppose not. Just don't go buying a Lincoln Continental on our budget." 

She snickered. "That makes me think of the time we had to, oh, you know..." 

"What?" 

"When we had to go to Europe to save the Professor and Banshee from Factor Three. And we didn't have the money?" 

"Oh, nuts!" He laughed. 

"And, and both of us tried to get a job in construction, I levitated those girders, and you riveted..." 

"Yeah. With my power beam." He was chuckling. 

"And we couldn't get in because they couldn't give us union cards!" 

He was cracking up. "We don't want them damn muties in our union!" 

She was in semi-hysterics. "'Look for the Mutant Label...that says we're able to mutate in the U.S.A.!'" 

"Oh, hell! And a half!" 

"And, and Bobby and Hank were out there doing carnival stunts and passing the hat...oh, gawd..." She was gasping for breath. 

"If that stupid kid super-villain hadn't happened along when he did, I don't know what we would've done." 

"Yeah," she said, stifling her giggles with a hand over her mouth. "What was, what was his name? Mewhacko?" 

"Mekano. That's just as bad. And his dad, holy Moses...'You taught my son a valuable lesson by beating the crud out of him. Tell me what you want.' 'Oh, five plane tickets to Europe.' 'Four.' 'Five and we promise to beat him up again when we get back.' 'You got it.'" 

Jean had her face against the pillow and was kicking her bare feet. Scott said, "If you get any redder, I'm not gonna be able to tell where your hair ends and your skin starts." 

"Scotty, Scotty, Scotty," she gasped. "It's just that...there was so much about being an X-Man that...well, now a lot of it seems really, really dumb!" 

"It was." He grabbed one of her feet under the covers and tickled her sole with his other hand. 

"Stop that!" She levitated the pillow over his face. 

In a muffled voice, he said, "You know what I'm gonna do if you don't take this off?" 

"Scott Summers...yipe! Stop tickling!...don't you dare! Don't you dare blow a hole in that pillow!" 

"One." 

"Stop it!" 

"Two." 

"Scotttt...." 

"Thr--" 

She telekinetically raised the pillow off his head an instant before she rolled herself over on top of him. Then she placed a finger on his lips. "Stop the countdown." 

He wrapped his arms gently around her. "Are you preparing for reentry?" 

"I guess," she sighed, "that depends on the size of your module." 

Jean felt the delicious sensation of his hands on her bare skin, easing up her nightdress, approximately three seconds before the phone rang. He said something she never heard him say in front of Professor Xavier. 

"I'll lift it," she said. 

"Don't bother," said Scott, and reached out for the phone. "Summers," he said into the receiver. 

"Scott," said Donny Tallent. He didn't sound hyper. He sounded, Scott noted, damned tense. "The boss phoned, wants you down to the campus. Now." 

Scott sat up and Jean, able to hear enough of the conversation to follow along, eased to the side of the bed and looked worried. "What's up?" asked Scott. 

"The SAVI group's taken a building over. They've got a few hostages. They say they've got bombs." 

He hesitated only a moment. "I'm on my way." 

"Scott," said Donny. "They might really have a bomb. Be careful." 

"Yeah. Thank you, Donny. I mean that. I'll be by there to pick up a mobile unit." 

"Gotcha. We'll be waiting." 

"In a minute." Scott hung up, then swung his legs out of bed. 

She began to get out of bed on the other side. "I'm coming with you, Scott." 

"No, you're not," he said, heading for the closet. 

A second later, he found himself lifted off the floor and propelled backward. "Don't you ever tell me 'No, you're not!' about something like this, Scott Summers. I mean it!" 

"Jeannie, this could be dangerous!" 

"And Magneto wasn't? Or Sauron, or Quasimodo, or the Brotherhood of Evil Mutants, or any of those others?" She walked over to face him, still holding him six inches off the ground. "Well?" 

"Damnation," he said. "All right. But..." 

"But what?" 

"Where do you have our uniforms?" 

"I'll go get them," she smiled, and lowered him to the ground as she went to the dresser. 

-X- 

Scott had picked up the mobile broadcasting unit, a backpack thingummy with a headset and mike, from the station on their dash to the campus. The Student Union Building was the scene of the crime. Scott didn't know why they chose it, unless it had something to do with books to read, music to listen to, and food to nosh on while they threatened folks with the bomb. Or bombs. 

Of course, they might not have a thing. But you never made that assumption. You couldn't bloody well afford to. 

Jeannie was sitting beside him with the unit slung in the back of their Rambler. They didn't talk much beyond the essentials, on the way. The campus was only two red lights away. She turned to him, her hands on her purse. "Scott?" 

"Yeah, babe." 

"Have to admit something stupid. I'm a little bit nervous." 

"Me too. And that's a good sign." 

"And I, uh, have to admit something else. Even harder." 

"What?" 

She grinned. "I'm excited." 

He shook his head and smiled. "You would be. Just remember, when we put the suits on, if we put the suits on, it's just like X-Men days. I'm Cyclops, you're Marvel Girl." 

"Only a man would think a woman would forget something like that." 

"Libber." 

"Chauvinist!" 

The light changed and the one beyond that was green, also. "Clear all the way," said Scott. 

She looked out the windshield. "Not unless you get rid of all those cop cars. And the looky-lous." 

Scott grumbled, "They've got as big a crowd for this as for a damn football game." He was beginning to slack up on the foot-feed. 

"Not inside, they won't," said Jean. "And that's where it counts." 

"You got it, hon." 

-X- 

The scene wasn't as disorderly as might have been expected. It was nearly midnight, after all, and the undercurrent through the crowd was dull fear, not jubilant protest. As the two of them got out of their car, they saw one straggling student with a sign, hastily made, reading: THIS IS NOT THE WAY. A cop in a leather jacket shoved him. "Get outta here with that, kid," he snapped. 

Scott had the mike on in an instant. "S'cuse me, officer. Scott Summers, WESR." The cop whirled, looked like he wanted to part the newsie's hair with a billy club. But the redheaded tomato standing beside him would be a witness, and there was that open mike. 

"Yeah?" said the cop. 

"Believe I just saw you shoving that student. Why did you do that?" 

"Didn't shove him," the cop retorted. "Just tryin' to get him outta the way." 

The kid with the sign was near enough by to speak with. Scott said, "Is that the way it was, sir?" 

The protester coughed a moment, then, carefully, said, "I'm not sure. I'm really not sure." 

Jean and Scott helped the 20-year-old up. "I don't think that sign of yours indicates solidarity with the SAVI group, does it?" 

"He--heck, no!" the guy said. "I might agree with their aims, y'know, but their tactics are--well, like, I don't dig no bombs, y'know what I mean? Bombs can hurt people. Don't want 'em in Vietnam, don't want 'em here." 

"So do most people believe they've really got a bomb?" Scott held out the mike again. 

"Hey, I really believe it." 

"Thank you, sir." 

The kid crowded closer to the mike. "Hi, Mom! This is Marty and I'm doin' fine!" 

"Thank you, sir," said Scott, pushing the youth away a bit more gently than the cop. He saw Jean talking with the policeman, and figured she was better at putting out peace feelers than he was. 

"Oh, this is my husband," said Jean, pointing at Scott. "Scott Summers, Officer Dexter. Please, sir, tell him what you've just told me." 

Dexter looked like he was chewing over old bile for a moment, then spoke. "The protestors've barricaded themselves inside," he said. "Don't think there's more than six of them, but we don't know. Negotiations are s'posed to be going on. You'd have to talk with Captain Boyer about that." 

"Thanks, do you know where we can find him?" 

"Huh?" 

"Do you know where we can find him, sir?" 

"Ah, he's up there near the squad car, in the brown coat," said Dexter. "Listen, is this going out over the air?" 

"It could if I wanted it to," said Scott, evenly. 

"Well, uh, that bit about me and the kid, it didn't really..." 

"It might if I wanted it to," said Scott. 

Dexter sighed. "I'll take ya to him." 

-X- 

Donny Tallent was about to wear a trail in the floor between the broadcasting booth, the coffeepot, and the john. All three of the regular phone lines were lighting up like Christmas trees, but he was only answering ones that came in on the unlisted line. Let the listeners stew. He was nerved enough already. 

He was playing some r&b by the Temptations and staying away from anything that might be construed as a protest song tonight. He also had Scott's feed on the cue monitor turned up loud so he could hear the guy even when he was in the john. Lord knows, he might have to run out half-zipped and put the guy on. It'd happened before. 

"Don, this is Scott," came the voice. "Put me on." 

Donny ran fumblingly from the coffeemaker, sloshing some of his cup's contents stingingly on his hand but, thankfully, not on the boss's carpet. He cut the Temptations' "Papa Was a Rolling Stone", hit the News Bulletin intro cart, and followed it with, "Now we go to Ector University, and Scott Summers." 

"Thank you, Donny," said Scott. "The scene here is as tense as might be expected, with a crowd in excess of 300 people standing just behind the police barricades. The student protesters, members of Students Against the Vietnam Insanity, an ad hoc offshoot of Weatherman, have been in existence less than a year, in your opinion, Captain Boyer?" 

"That's right, as far as we know," said Boyer. Donny widened his eyes, briefly. The new kid was getting the goods tonight. "The group doesn't seem to have that many hardcore adherents, but, in a situation like this, it doesn't have to. We're keeping the incident under control so far, and Dean McKay is negotiating with the students over a closed line." 

Donny thought he heard a female voice say, "A clothesline?" Boyer repeated, "A closed line. On the telephone." 

Scott came back: "The crux of the situation tonight, sir, is the students' claim to have a bomb, or perhaps several bombs. Do you think it is possible for them to have acquired bombs?" 

A pause. Then Boyer said, "It's unknown at this time. However, bombs can be made, and terrorist groups, or protestors, or revolutionaries, or whatever you want to call them, definitely have this knowledge and have passed it around. That's all I'll say in regards to that." 

"Thank you very much, Captain Boyer," said Scott. "Captain Boyer of the Ector Police Department. So, as you heard, events are still very much up in the air at this point. We do not know what demands are being made by the student protestors. We do not know the identities of those participating in this activity, outside of the fact that they are apparently members of the Stop the Vietnam Insanity group. Negotiations are going on, and it is entirely possible that this event will have a peaceful ending. But, as of yet...it remains to be seen. Scott Summers, WESR News." 

"Thank you, Scott," said Donny. "We'll keep you informed with our on-the-spot reporting from the campus of Ector. Back with more music in a moment." He hit a commercial cart, sat down in the office chair in front of the board, and ran his hands back through his thinning hair. The two TV stations in town were covering this mess, too, and the boss, on the phone, had told him that ABC News was taking some feeds from their affiliate for the early morning show. 

But by damn! He didn't think any of the network guys sounded much better than Scott, at the moment. 

He just hoped that this wouldn't end up with him staring down at Summers's closed casket somewhere. 

-X- 

Jean and Scott had disengaged themselves from the cops and the crowd and were moving back to where they had parked the car, two blocks away. When they were far enough out, he snapped, "Jean. I want you to--" 

"Scott, I'm sorry." 

"Just remember not to talk while I've got the mike open," he said. "That remark about the clothesline could get me the biggest pants-chewing in my life." 

"I said I was sorry, damn it. And it did sound like 'clothesline' to me." 

"Okay, okay." He held up his hand, not looking at her. "Forget it. Discussion over. Help me with this." He was unbuckling the mobile unit from his back. She considered doing it with her telekinesis, but thought that someone might be watching and used her hands. They got it off him and stowed it in the car. 

"Now what?" She sat against the door of the car, her arms folded, her breath slightly misting in the night air. 

He looked at her for a long moment. "You know those things we were talking over earlier, Jeannie?" 

"Yeah." 

"The answer to one of them is: right now." 

They got in the car and drove it into an alleyway. 

A few seconds later, from the other end, Cyclops and Marvel Girl quickly made their way towards the center of the action, and took no notice of the passersby who gaped. 

-X- 

Captain Boyer was still standing beside Officer Bob Pulaski, megaphone in one hand and coffee in the other, wondering when the hell Dean McKay was going to get back to him with some details when he heard the voice in his head. 

Captain Boyer. This is Marvel Girl, of the X-Men. If you're receiving this, don't speak. Just think: Yes.> 

What the HELL was going on? 

That's sufficient,> the voice went on. I need to communicate with you because Cyclops is with me and we're going to try to neutralize the situation.> 

"Don't," said Boyer. "Whatever you do, whoever you are, don't do it." 

Pulaski looked at Boyer. "Captain?" 

"Shut up, Pulaski." 

We've handled this sort of assignment before, Captain. In our first collaborative case, we liberated a missle base from Magneto. Give us twenty minutes and we'll see if we can break this or not.> 

"You are not authorized in this matter and I order you by the authority vested in me as a police officer to desist!" 

Do you really want that, Captain? Or would you rather see if two New York heroes can save you a lot of trouble?> 

"Captain, what's going on?" 

"Pulaski, I'm talking with--" Boyer stopped. Then he thought, Can you hear me?> 

I sure can.> 

Boyer, feeling as stupid as a kid caught by his mother with a girlie book, thought, What do you want?> 

Twenty minutes. And don't let them know we're coming.> 

You are on your own,> he thought back. You'd better perform.> 

Then, aloud, Boyer said, "Pulaski, come with me." The campus cop trailed along behind him. He was heading in the direction of one of the TV news crews. He was in on the private conversation between the captain and the standup reporter guy. There was something about "special ops" and some very strong veiled hints about what status the reporter's ass would be in in if he shpieled about it. The reporter nodded. 

Boyer was headed for the second camera crew. Pulaski hung back long enough to say to the guy, "And what he says, goes for me, too. Double!" 

Turning away, he decided the look on the newsie's face was worth just about everything that'd happened that night. 

-X- 

There was no way their presence was going to be a secret from the crowd once this thing started. And the SAVI guys had to be assumed to be listening to radios, and possibly TV as well. 

Cyclops adjusted his visor one last time and turned to Marvel Girl. She was shivering a bit in the night cold. "Think you might change your costume a bit after this?" 

"Maybe. But I always manage to catch you looking at my legs with this one." She smiled slyly. He smiled back, a tad grimly, and put a hand on the back of her neck, squeezing lightly. 

"Let's get this done," he said, and removed his hand. 

Without a word, Marvel Girl flexed the mental muscle that controlled her TK powers, and the two of them rose quickly into the night. Within seconds, they were 50 feet over the ground, travelling at over 30 mph over the crowd, the cops, and the buildings of Ector University. They heard the shouts from below. Scott looked down briefly and saw, through his visor, the rubberneckers pointing upward in astonishment. Luckily enough, no one was shooting at them. 

They were coming down over the student union building, and about to land on its roof. "You getting anything yet?" asked Cyclops. 

"A little," said Marvel Girl, bringing them down atop the concrete roof of the SUB with as little impact as possible. "There's ten of the SAVIs inside. I'll try to do a probe, but--" She stiffened. 

"What's up?" 

"Cyke, they've definitely got a bomb." 

"Hostages?" 

"About eight people. They're being held in the main lounge. Sounds like...I'm picking up five there who seem to be SAVI. The other five are scattered around the building. Guards. They're armed." 

"Any of 'em on the level under us?" The SUB was a two-story affair. 

"Yeah. One over there." She pointed to the north side of the building. He ran to the edge of the roof. 

"Lower me. Head first." 

Cyclops felt his feet being lifted from the roof by her telekinetic tug. When he was far enough from the roof's surface, Marvel Girl turned him upside down and held him just beyond the roof's edge, lowering him a few inches at a time. 

"Over to the left," said Cyclops. "Okay. Down a little more. A little more..." 

Inside, a 21-year-old male economics major who was smoking a Pall Mall, holding a rifle he'd taken from his dad's hunting stash, and wondering nervously if his commitment to ending the War might not have gone a little extreme, paced, turned his attention to the windows on the north side again, and dropped the cigarette from his mouth when he saw what looked like the top part of a masked guy's head hanging upside down in the window. 

He hadn't gotten his rifle up by the time a crimson beam smashed through the window like a giant fist and banged into his chest. It sent him back hard into one of the marble walls and gave his head a nasty crack. To his credit, he hadn't dropped the rifle. 

Cyclops had already swung in through the window, sprinted across the distance between them, and swung a yellow-gloved fist into the guy's five-o'-clock shadowed jaw. He reflected, as his knucks cracked bone, that he'd developed the best punch of any of the old group, except for the Beast. He'd worked on it, for situations just like this. 

The man went down and his weapon clattered on the floor. So did a walkie-talkie. It was on. 

"Herbie, what's the word?" said someone on the other end. "Herbie, come in. Herbie!" 

Cyclops saw Jeannie levitating herself through the broken window and held a finger to his lips for silence. He pointed at the walkie-talkie and the rifle. She grasped them with her mind, lifted them from the floor, and propelled them out of the window. To keep the other terrorists from seeing them, Marvel Girl sent the two objects a full block away from the site before letting them fall to the ground. 

He spoke. "Mental comm from here on in." 

The next one's coming from that direction,> sent Marvel Girl. Two others up the stairs. I'll take the guy on this level.> 

Be careful. Stay linked.> 

Go, Scotty.> 

They split up. Cyclops headed for the winding marble stairway and was glad his boots were designed to make as little noise while running as possible. Marvel Girl was already sprinting away towards her quarry. An instant of concern spiked into him. Then he forced it back down, not slackening his speed, and got back into X-Man mode. 

A black guy, 18ish, in a dashiki, was in the lead on the stairs. He was holding two .45 automatics. A girl in a tie-dyed shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes was behind him, carrying a .38. Both of them gaped at the sight of a blue-and-gold costumed figure barrelling their way from the top of the stairway. The guy was about to use his walkie-talkie and shoot at the same time. 

What the hell, thought Scott, let's Captain America it. 

He launched himself forward with his legs, whamming into the black kid and sending him back into the girl. There was time enough for the kid to swear, frantically, and pop off a shot that, thankfully, missed Cyke and buried itself in the ceiling. The three of them tumbled back down the stairs, Cyclops smashing away at the Dashikied guy's face, making sure the girl was too off-balance to use her gun. By the time they splatted near the bottom of the staircase, Cyclops had uncorked a punch that put the guy to sleep, then hit him again to make sure. He looked up. 

The girl was sitting there, the gun in her hand and a terrified expression on her face. It wasn't quite pointed at him. 

"Put it down," he said, as gently as possible. She hesitated. 

"Put it down or I open this," he said, indicating his visor. "I'm one of the X-Men." 

Silently, she dropped the gun. He didn't know if she knew what he could do, but darned if it didn't seem like the mutant-fear thing was working in his favor for once. He stood, overshadowing her for a second, then gave her a great open-handed blow to the side of her face. Her head snapped back and her eyes went up. 

He damned himself, even as he acknowledged that he had to do it. The girl was only unconscious, thankfully. 

That was when a burst of semiautomatic fire stictched holes in the ornate wallpaper not far from his head. 

-X- 

Marvel Girl didn't really have time to concentrate on Scott that much as she went after the guard still remaining on the second level. One track of her mind monitored him, but she couldn't let it distract her. This was going to be hard enough to pull off as it was. 

The SAVI guy rounded a corner of the hall and held his rifle with the grip of an experienced shooter. He looked about 25 per cent beefier than the guy Cyclops had taken out and he was enough on the ball to start shooting as soon as he saw her. But his eyes widened as he beheld her dropping on her back before the shots were loosed, almost as if she could have seen him before he saw her. Was he making that much noise? 

He was shouting into the walkie-talkie he'd hung around his neck. "Intruder. Intruder, guys. Somebody's in--" 

The female mutant yanked the gun from his hands with two strong telekinetic tugs, in between which she sent a powerful blow of mental force into his brain. He cried out in pain. Marvel Girl rolled over, sprang to her feet, and grabbed the rifle barrel's cold, tubular surface. She swung it up and brought the weapon's stock down hard on the SAVI guy's head. He staggered. She did it again, twice. 

The guard went to his knees. Somebody on the other end of the walkie-talkie was saying, "Jerry. Jerry, what the hell's going on up there? Jerry, acknowledge!" Then it cut off. 

Bad, she told herself. Very, very bad. They know we're in here, and they've got a bomb. Got to wrap this quickly. 

The guy, bowed but not yet broken, grabbed for Marvel Girl's yellow-booted foot and upended her, sending her crashing down to the carpet on her back. He tried to spring on her. Gritting her teeth, Jean drove her legs upward as hard as she could, slamming a boot heel into his jaw. She didn't have much chance to show off her physical ability in her fights, but every X-Man had been drilled in martial arts during their curriculum, and she gave away little to the others in the aspects where skill counted for more than muscle. 

She used her TK to lift the beefy guy skyward, slammed his head into the ceiling, then cut it off abruptly and let him drop to the floor with a bang. Then she hauled him to his feet, physically, got him in a shoulder carry, and ran for a wall with him. The guard had time to open his eyes a bit before he contacted the wallpaper, sheetrock, and hard studding behind it. He slumped to the floor. A short, quick probe indicated he was out for the night. 

Emma Peel's got nothin' on me, she thought as she mentally lifted the damaged rifle and sent it through the broken window. Then she sent a probe and communication to Scott: I've done the guy up here. What about you?> 

Without him even sending, Jean felt his sudden tension. She learned from an abrupt surface-scan that bullets had barely missed him a couple of seconds ago, and that he was within sight of their main quarry. A visual probe linked her to his eyes. She saw the hostages sitting on the floor of the main lounge, two armed guards watching over them, two others aiming at Cyclops, and, within the lounge, a bearded kid in an Ector U sweatshirt, sitting at a long table, his arms wrapped about what could be nothing else but a homemade and powerful bomb. 

"Let's vote on it, guys," he was saying. "Do we make him a hostage? Or do we make him dead?" 

-X- 

Dean McKay was trying not to let his frantic emotion creep into his voice as he spoke into the phone. "What was that, Carter? The hostages, you promised not to--" 

There was some more talk on the other end of the line, one of the voice's Carter's. The kid who had come in as a pre-law and had become a revolutionary in two short years. Actually, they wouldn't seem so short from a student's point of view: college was a pressure cooker experience, hardly less from the faculty's perspective. But tonight seemed to last longer than a four-year stretch. God help us all, thought the dean, if we tack on graduate school to that... 

"Carter, talk to me," said McKay, raising his voice. "Before you do anything drastic, talk to me. As we agreed. Please." The cop facing him, one of two in the room with him and a tech monitoring the call, listened intently on a set of earphones. He was writing something on a pad of paper and showing it to his partner. McKay didn't really want to see what it was. 

"Carter!" 

And then, Carter was back on the line. "You lied to me, Deano. You said you'd keep the pigs out while we were negotiating." 

"I did," said McKay, looking at the cops. The man with the phones on scribbled words on the pad again, and held it up for the dean to see: NONE OF OURS ARE IN THERE. 

"Well, one of your running dogs got in here," Carter was saying. "Took out some of my people. We've got him now. He's our latest hostage." 

McKay said emphatically, "Carter. The police assured me that no officer of theirs has entered the building. If someone got in, it was on his own." 

"Maybe it was," said Carter. "But he shouldn't have gotten in. In case you don't remember, I've got a bomb here. Anytime I get itchy, or think you're not listening to me--I can go pow!" 

"I'm listening to you," said McKay. "Haven't I heard all your demands so far?" 

"Yeah," said Carter. "You heard me when I said we wanted a teach-in on how our beloved country is involved in this war for purely economic motives. How they're burning women and children with napalm researched in this very campus." 

"I told you, we don't have any knowledge of that." 

"Horse hockey, Dean! We also want the kids to know how little their government cares for 'em. How they're shovelin' 'em into the mouth of that Moloch they call the Vietnam War, which we call the Vietnam Insanity!" 

McKay said, as patiently as possible, "I was shovelled into another Moloch's mouth, 27 years ago. It was called World War II. If I hadn't gone, if men like me hadn't served, Hitler would have--" 

"Bull****! Different war, different reasons. You're making me itchy." 

"Don't," said McKay. "If you want to blow yourself up, release the hostages first." 

"No deal. And we want that building named after Malcolm X and a black history course taught by somebody the Panthers nominate." 

McKay sighed. Then he tried a new tack: "Who is it that got in there with you?" 

"You wouldn't believe it," said Carter. 

"Well?" 

"He's a super-hero from New York. One of those X-Men guys. He calls himself Cyclops. Guess that makes me Ulysses, 'cause I've got him." 

"Carter, don't..." 

"Later, Deano. I'll talk to you later." 

Click. 

-X- 

Charles Carter spoke to one of his four remaining men. "I think there's another one in here. Find him." 

"Won't that, uh, spread us a little thin?" asked the guy he'd addressed. "We're already..." 

"Find him!" 

The guy, an ex-high school footballer who hadn't made it onto the team at Ector, shrugged and left. One of the hostages, a janitor in a green suit, gathered his guts and said, "In the name of God, mister, please--" 

"SHUT UP!" Carter exploded at him, his hands going near a pull-wire on the bomb. The hostages, their hands and ankles bound and the guns pointed at them restraining them more effectively, chorused in "No"'s and prayers and crying. Only one refused to join the chorus. 

"Mind telling me why you're doing this, compadre?" asked Cyclops. He spoke in an accent and tone unlike his normal one. Cyke usually, like the other X-Men, switched his voice a bit when in costume. But since becoming a radio man, his Scott Summers voice was known to thousands of people in the area. Thus, his new Cyclops voice was even further disguised. He spoke in a quasi-Bostonian accent. Jean had kidded him about sounding like Vaughn Meader, but he kept it nonetheless. 

A short blonde fellow with another of the ubiquitous rifles smiled. "The guy wants to negotiate, Carter. Maybe he wants your life story, huh? Tryin' to get you--" 

"That's enough," said Carter, and the guard subsided. "You oughta know. You're not that much older than us." 

"So," said Cyke, "you're doing this because you're afraid of the draft?" 

"NO!" 

A cleaning lady turned to Cyclops and moaned. "Please don't get him annoyed. Please, please. I've got three kids to come home to and I want to come home to them again when this is over." 

"It's all right, ma'am," said Cyke. Then, to Carter, he said, "Didn't mean to jog your toggle, pardner. Just tell me what kind of statement you're trying to make." 

Carter nodded, relishing the moment. "Again I say: you ought to know. I recognize you. Seen you in the paper, on Cronkite. You're Cyclops. One of the X-Men. A mutant." 

"Correct." 

"They call you muties." 

"Some of them do." 

"You're persecuted. A persecuted minority." 

Cyclops sighed. "Could be looked at that way, I guess. But we do all right, except when it's Sentinel season." 

"Carter, if I could make a suggestion," said one of the guards. 

"Save it," said Carter. 

"They're not gonna wait all night," the guard pestered. "We need to get back on the phone and do a deal." 

"I said save it!" Carter would brook no authority other than his own. Cyclops wondered how the situation could be handled. The man was as potentially deadly as his bomb. And Jeannie had said that the bomb was a realie. 

"Okay, okay," said Cyclops, shifting slightly to a more comfortable position. Two of the guns shifted in his direction and he stopped. "So tell me: why are you doing this? I still don't know." 

"It's a statement, man," said Carter, fondling his bomb like a babe in arms. "Unto every man and woman alive at this time is given the burden of making a statement. This is ours. It is our night. The night of SAVI." 

Cyclops shifted his jaw and nodded. He could blast the kid. They'd tied his hands, but they didn't know about his glove controls. But it was too risky. He could set the bomb off inadvertently, and probably would. "Can you give me the substance of your statement? In words, that is?" 

Carter smiled. "The substance of our statement, man, is this." He pointed to the bomb. "We created this in a lab not far from where they used to do napalm research here. Did you know about that? Bet you didn't. Not unless you read the undergrounds." 

"On occasion," said Scott. "I love the Furry Freak Brothers." 

One of the guards smiled. "Hey, you know that one too, man? That's one of my favorites." 

"Will you shut up?" railed Carter. "The statement: this campus shall no longer participate in acts involving the propagation of the war action in Vietnam. No oncampus recruiters, no ROTC, no nothing. This campus will hire several teachers of our approving who will conduct a teach-in on the War and on inequities in American society. This campus will rename one of its buildings after Malcolm X and hire a Panther as a teacher. Tuition for black students will be lowered, and tuition for white students will be raised to make up the difference." 

"Tall order," said Cyclops. "You think they'll give you all that in one night?" 

"No," said Carter. "But that's business. You ask for a lot to get a little. We're getting attention from the national press now, in addition to the local, and that is our main objective." 

"Wouldn't it have been easier to hire a PR guy?" 

"Don't get funny with me, man!" 

"Sorry." 

Jean,> he thought. Jean. Am I coming through?> 

No answer. A guy had been sent to look for her. He put a mental wedge between those two thoughts, and shifted his attention back to Carter. "Look," he said. "There's a simple way out of this. Just let everybody go, turn yourselves in to the nice policemen outside--" 

"Nice policemen!" scoffed the blond-haired guy. "Should I mention Chicago, man?" 

"I'm talking," said Cyke, as emphatically as he dared. The guard shut up. "Turn yourself in to the cops. There's radio and TV around, covering everything, as I said. They won't dare brutalize you with the cameras on. You'll probably be out on bail within 24 hours. There's enough rich lefties in Hollywood to cover the bill for all of you." 

Carter smirked, but did not laugh. "Tell us the rest of it, Cy-clops." 

"All right. The rest of it. Something bad goes down. You lose control of the situation. Maybe you just get tired. Maybe somebody challenges your authority. Maybe some cops get sent in, in a sneak attack. There's any number of maybes we can multiply. Infinite possibilities. Most of them have a single result. Something goes boom. Somebody dies. That somebody is plural. It could be you." 

"It could very well be," said Carter, unsmiling. 

"Well?" 

Carter assumed a pose which, to Cyke, looked something like William Shatner in his command chair on the Enterprise. "Don't you think we've thought this thing through beforehand, Cy-clops? We know what the chances are. But we're in control. That's how we determine what--the--outcome--will--be." 

Cyclops looked around at the ten hostages, most of whom were trying not to look at the men with guns or the man with the bomb. "What do you think it will be?" 

"Just like you said, first version," said Carter. "We grab the press. We make our statement. We insist on a transport plane out of here, with a couple of these old geeks as insurance. We take it to Canada, and live happily ever after in No Draft Land." 

"You think that's the way it'll be?" Cyclops said, quietly. "Like there's no extradition treaty between Canada and the U.S.? This isn't like crossing the border to beat the draft, man. The law on both sides will see you as terrorists. You go up there, and Sgt. Preston is gonna send you back." 

Carter laughed. "Or maybe Dudley Do-Right, huh? No, we got it sussed. It's gonna work out, man. It's really, really gonna work out." 

Cyclops set his jaw. Sometimes, he didn't like it when the logical part of his brain drew conclusions. The kind it drew now were the ones which, he wagered, were pretty close to what Carter really had in mind. His hopes for escape were as impossible as the demands he was making on the campus dean. 

The guy had no intention of letting anyone in this building leave alive. Including himself. 

A deathwish? The lust for posthumous fame? Or just a more fitting, final Statement? The motivation didn't matter. All that would matter was the result. 

"You think you know it all," said Cyclops. "You really think you know it all." 

Carter, his hand cautiously near the wire-pull, said, "Tell me what I don't know." 

"You don't know about me, for one thing," said Cyclops. "You don't know what it's like to be a mutant." 

A look of curiosity crossed Carter's face. "You're right. I don't."   


"Want me to tell you?" 

Slowly, the man nodded. Even the guards looked like they were tracking him. Well and good. 

"Okay," said Cyclops. "What it means to be a mutant. To begin with, you're right, in a way. It is being a member of a minority. Even if you happen to be white, which I am, reasonably. But it's different. With us, people have got something concrete to fear." 

"So do we, brother," said Carter. 

"Yeah, but we don't have to make it. We're born with it. With the power. It manifests usually in your teenage years, when all those hormones start pumping. That's when I found out what my eyes could do. The others I knew had other interesting things happen: wings, ice, mental powers, magnetism, speed, illusions, stuff like that. That isn't even scratching the surface. It's been estimated that thousands of people may be mutants, and not even know it. More are being born all the time. So--it could be your kid. That's what frightens people. You could be white, Christian, Republican, Joe Average, and your child might be a mutant. One of Them. Or even worse...someday, you could be one of Them." 

"Heavy," opined one of the guards. 

"I was lucky," Cyke continued. "The greatest man I ever knew took me in. He made me into what I am today. I could've not been so lucky. I could've been found by somebody like Magneto. He ran a crew of mutants that weren't nearly so nice as the X-Men. Lots of times, we were the only ones between him and the likes of you. A few of you were grateful. Most of you didn't seem to care." 

"Hey, man, I can relate," said one of the guards. 

"Shut it," griped Carter, but he listened. 

"We didn't really get persecuted until the Bolivar Trask business. He was the McCarthy of the Mutants. He was the creator of the Sentinels. They were those big robots whose job it was to hunt mutants down. Trask died, when he destroyed his own master Sentinel. But that wasn't as important as the fear he'd spread in his TV appearances. He talked about a 'Mutant Menace'. Some of the press got ahold of it. We'd been trying to establish ourselves, the X-Men, as super-heroes to show people that mutants could be their allies, just another kind of human being. We did, to a large extent. But after Trask, a lot of people would always view us with fear. The way they didn't fear the Avengers or the Fantastic Four. After all, those guys had gotten their powers in other ways than being born with them." 

A guard said, "Man, Carter, what if we made a demand that a course on mutants be taught? From the pro-mutant viewpoint, of course. This guy could teach it." 

"Oh, Lester, will you please," said Carter. "This guy is just trying to Scheherezade you, is all. Eh...go on." 

"The bit is that, whatever the current public perception, we have to go on," said Cyclops. "We have a Statement of our own to make. The Statement that, with powers or without, we're human beings...and we can be trustworthy. Plus the fact that, if we don't do it, people like Magneto and the Sentinels will threaten all of us. So. That's part of what it's like to be a mutant." 

One of the guards spoke. "Have you ever met Thor?" 

"A few times," admitted Cyke. 

"What's he really like?" 

"Very large, blonde hair, big hammer," said Cyclops. "Powerful. Uses thees and thous a lot. Good guy to have on your side, and if he's around, you better find out where his side is right quick." 

Carter looked at Cyclops for a moment, then picked up the phone. "Time to talk. Hello, Dean?" 

There were two sets of footsteps. Cyclops turned in their direction. So did most of the others, including several hostages. 

Marvel Girl was walking in front of the guard Carter had sent to find her. He had his gun pointed at her back. 

Carter spoke into the phone. "Hold it, something's come up. Be back in a moment." He hung the phone up and looked at Cyclops. "You didn't tell us about her." 

Scott, are you reading me?>, sent Marvel Girl. 

Acknowledged,> thought Cyke. Then, aloud, he said, "You didn't ask." 

"Walter," said Carter. "You were gone a long time. What went down up there, Walter? Walter?" 

Walter wasn't answering. Jean moved away from in front of him. Carter saw Walter's eyes, as glassy as a zombie's. 

Marvel Girl had telepathed a quick set of instructions to Cyclops. They had to be quick. They had less than five seconds to make this work. The other three guards were swinging their weapons in her direction. 

With her TK power, Jean yanked upwards on all three barrels, and their shots made plaster dust shake down from the ceiling. 

At the same time, Cyclops activated the hand-controls in his gloves and the gate in his visor went up inside of a second. The great red power beam surged forward from his eyes. It was convienient that all the guards were standing, while the hostages were all kneeling or sitting down. With a quick and powerful sweep, he smashed all three SAVI members with an intensity that rendered them all senseless. 

But the guards weren't their main focus of action. Carter was, and he was trying to pull his bomb's trip-wire. And trying. And trying. 

Marvel Girl was holding the wire immobile with her full telekinetic power. 

The wire extended from the top of the bomb to Carter's hand, which was convienient. Jean's power was holding it in two places, as she'd mentally indicated to Cyke, leaving a middle section untouched. With a quick pressure of his fingers, Cyclops narrowed the area of his beam to needle diameter. This had to be done quickly and precisely, and he got uncontrollable flashbacks to the time in which another of his power beams had deactivated Lucifer's bomb and saved the world. 

This time, all it did was sever the trip-wire. Jean let go of the top half of the wire, and Carter, still tugging it, fell backwards. In an instant, Cyclops was on him, covering him, bulling him away from the bomb. Jean held the device immobile against the table with her power. 

When they had gotten several steps away from the bomb, Cyke dragged Carter to his feet with one hand in his shirtfront. Meekly, Carter said, "I surrender." 

"I haven't made my statement yet," replied Cyclops, and uncorked a right to the jaw. Carter slumped. 

Cyclops lowered him gently to the floor. Then he took a deep breath and turned to Marvel Girl. She smiled at him, warmly but briefly. 

Then he turned to the hostages. "Let's see about getting you free," he said. 

Jean moved to help him do just that. 

-X- 

Donny Tallent was about to lose the last of the coffee he'd mainlined. Mr. Grant was standing not three feet away from him, burning. "If he doesn't turn up within five minutes, he's canned," murmured Grant, decisively. 

"It's his first time, boss," said Donny. "Be reasonable." 

"His last, too." 

"Jumpin' Jack Flash" was fading and Donny was about to roll something by Chicago right after it. He got as far as the first bits of brass notes when a voice came through the cue monitor. "Donny, this is Scott. Patch me in, now." 

Donny sighed. Grant switched his cigar to the other side of his mouth. Chicago was potted down and the news intro cart came up. Donny tagged it. "Now, from Ector University, here's Scott Summers." 

"Thank you, Donny," said Scott. "We're here on the campus of Ector University, where just a few minutes ago the hostage situation was defused, we repeat, defused by two members of the famous 'X-Men' group, in conjunction with the Ector police department. Here with me is Captain Boyer of the EPD. Captain, can you confirm this for our audience, please?" 

"X-Men?" said Donny. 

"Shut up," said Grant, leaning closer to the monitor. 

Captain Boyer's voice came through. "All I can say is that the woman, this Marvel, uh, Mary Marvel?" 

"Marvel Girl, Captain," said Scott. 

"This Miss Marvel Girl contacted me, asked us to let her and this Cyclops guy have a shot at rescuing the hostages. Against my better judgment, I gave consent. The hostages were saved unharmed and the terrorists were taken without great incident." 

"And the bomb, Captain?" 

"The device is in the hands of the bomb squad. The terrorists are in custody. The hostages are being examined by paramedics and will be debriefed later on. That's all I've got right now." 

"Thank you, Captain." 

"All I've got, except one thing. If super-heroes have to turn up in our town, I'm glad they did the kind of job they did tonight. If not, I'd be looking for a job tomorrow." 

"Thank you again, Captain. That was Captain Boyer of the Ector Police Department. Now I'd like to hear from one of the hostages. Yes, ma'am. If you could just step a little closer, that's fine. Your name is?" 

"Marcia Taylor. I work at the...oh, heavens..." 

"It's all right, Mrs. Taylor. Please stay with me, this won't take long, I promise. Can you describe for me what happened at the outset of the incident?" 

"Well, I was helping clean the first floor of the building when we heard the doors being, being forced, I supposed, and in came these wild, crazy men with guns and bombs and..." 

"Yes, ma'am. And what did they say to you?" 

"I can't use that kind of language here." 

"What did they say to you, approximately?" 

"They, they told us that they were members of this 'Savee' or 'Savvy' or something and that we should lie down on the floor or get shot. So we lie down on the floor and they tied our hands and ankles." 

"Were you physically hurt by the terrorists, ma'am?" 

"No, not really, but it wasn't comfortable, and we were scared half to death. They had a bomb, for heaven's sake!" 

"What about the two, uh, 'X-Men' who came on the scene? When did they arrive?" 

"Oh, it must have been an hour or so after the whole thing started. They captured one of them, too, you know, the one in the blue and yellow with the thing on his eyes, the man one. Then the woman came in, the one in that mini-skirt, the one over there, and she helped free the man and they...I was scared to death. But they saved us." 

"So neither you nor any of the other hostages were harmed, as a result?" 

"I couldn't say so, definitely. I think we're all right, thank God. And thank the police and those two young people." 

"Thank you, Mrs. Taylor. And now, I want to interview one more person before we give it back to the station. Here with me is one of the two X-Men involved in the hostage incident. Would you state your name for the record, miss?" 

A female voice came through. "Marvel Girl," it said. 

Grant's cigar was held frozen in the middle of his mouth. 

"Holy spit," whispered Donny Tallent. 

-X- 

The two of them had time to catch four hours of sleep before the alarm rang in the morning. Jeannie prepared the standard eggs-over-easy, toast, and bacon breakfast for the two of them. Scott unrolled the morning paper and looked at the front page. The headline read: 

'X-MEN' PAIR SAVE HOSTAGES 

Below it was a shot, taken with a flash so powerful it had left spots in Cyke's eyes even through his visor, of Cyclops and Marvel Girl herding the hostages out the front door of the student union building. 

Jean yawned, trying not to slop coffee on the tablecloth as she poured. "Didn't get my good side," she pouted. "Can I read?" 

"After I'm done," said Scott. "Here, take this part." He handed her the second half of the paper. As she paged through it, he scanned the article, which mentioned Cyclops and Marvel Girl and even Scott Summers's name as the guy who interviewed the female X-Man for the radio. And there was something very curious about the article. 

Throughout it, they were not referred to once as "mutants." 

When they were called something other than X-Men, the writer used the term "super-heroes." 

"Oh, Scott, listen to this," said Jean. "It's from the editorial page." 

"Mmm?" He lowered the front page for a moment. 

"The article's called, 'Hostages and Heroes' and it says, I quote, 'Before last night, Ector had no first-hand experience with super-heroes of the New York variety. Of course, it had never been host to a terrorist hostage situation on campus, either. Now it has experienced both, and if the two members of the famous X-Men team have come to call this city their home, the Ector Enterprise would like to be among the first to welcome them.'" 

"Mmm," said Scott, half-committaly. 

"'The two masked pilgrims apparently arrived just in time to stop a bomb threat by Students Against the Vietnam Insanity, in conjunction with the Ector Police. The ten released hostages confirmed that the two X-Men, Cyclops and Marvel Girl, penetrated the building where they were being held, executed a daring rescue attempt, and were successful. In an interview shortly after the fact with WESR radio's Scott Summers--'" 

"Mmm," Scott said, warming to the topic. 

"'--Marvel Girl confirmed that the two of them were operating currently in the Ector environs. She refused to answer more personal questions, but did say, 'After enemies like Magneto and Unus, this was a change of pace.'" She smirked. "Well?" 

"Mmm," said Scott. 

"'It must be allowed that the Ector Police Department could probably have handled the situation as well, themselves. But this does not detract from the daring performance of the two masked heroes, who bravely faced ten armed students to rescue an equal number of hostages. If Cyclops and Marvel Girl have come to stay, they chose a spectacular way to make an entrance. 

"'Some segments of society, however, may not welcome the twosome, if they choose to brand them with the scarlet letter "M" for Mutant. The inflammatory rhetoric of Dr. Bolivar Trask, late creator of the Sentinels, and those who followed his lead have a good deal to do with this. However, for our part, we remember the Magneto incident of 1963, in which the selfsame X-Men stopped the takeover of a U.S. missle base. The X-Men followed this with successes in many other reported cases, including ones in which they collaborated with the Fantastic Four and Avengers, neither of whom had any apparent problems working with mutants. 

"'So, for those who would brand the masked twosome with the "M" word, let the Enterprise commit to another term for them. 

"'We will call them "super-heroes". 

"'And we will welcome them to Ector. 

"'Anyone who has a problem with that will have to take on our editorial department. We hereby deputize our shop foreman to act in our stead. He doesn't wear a mask, but he's still got a pretty good right hook. 

"'Now, if we could just get the publisher to stop calling himself "Captain Enterprise", things would get back to normal.'" 

Jean put down the paper. She couldn't speak. Scott looked at her and saw the wetness welling in her eyes. She finally said, "Scott." 

He went to her side, touched her arm. "Jean. Just let it out." 

She hugged him fiercely, crying very softly. "They didn't call us mutants. They're calling us...calling us..." 

"Super-heroes," he said, patting her back as she clutched him. 

"Yeah." 

"You want my handkerchief?" 

"It's all right. Really, it is. It's just that...oh...after all this time, it sure feels good!" 

"I agree. It sure does. 'Marvel Girl.'" 

She chuckled through her tears and slapped him on the shoulder. "I ought to smack you one. I know it's a dumb name, but have you got a better one?" 

"Yeah. Cyclops. But it's mine!" 

She wanted to shake him like a smartmouthed child, but settled for kissing him instead. Then they hugged, and she said, "And to think...it just took leaving New York to do it." 

"So far," he said. "You know what?" 

"What?" 

"We've got to eat and finish getting dressed in fifteen minutes." 

"Oh, hell. I ought to call in sick, instead of bleary-eyed. And you said that your boss liked it?" 

"Well, we sold the feed of the interview to the UPI, and ABC News grabbed it, too. So yeah, I'd say he's pleased. Think I might just be doing more news, and less jocking." 

She sighed. "Maybe I should try modelling as Marvel Girl. Get more gigs that way." 

"Probably so. Let's eat. The working-class world awaits." 

"It sure does. And you know what awaits after it?" 

"What we didn't get finished doing last night?" 

"You got it, tiger." 

He returned her grin, and dug into breakfast. 

**** 

The title, natch, comes from John Lennon's "Working Class Hero." Hope you enjoyed this installment.   
  
  
  
  



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